In Reverse
by sodakey
Summary: After Faith, a job has the boys looking for missing hikers in Wyoming. While Sam worries it’s connected to what happened to Dean ten years ago, Dean wonders if Sam would be better off back in the world of normal.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not mine blah blah blah blah blah blah.

Warnings: Spoilers abound and I might have gone a little overboard on "angst."

Story is set between "Faith" and "Rout 666."

I have a tendency to write flashbacks in stories. If they are and/or become unclear or confusing, please let me know.

Additional notes you don't really need to read: Those thrifty enough to look it up on a map will note Lander is an actual place, as is Sinks Canyon, as are many of the locations utilized in this tale, including the Pronghorn Lodge. I like using real locations because it lends to a more realistic backdrop—I'm not from there, however, I am familiar with the area, being loosely affiliated with an organization headquartered there, and I have thus tweaked some of the particulars to adapt it to my literary needs. In the initial draft, I was more precise about the geography, but ultimately felt it was cumbersome in the context of the story. Alas... therefore, consider this a slightly simplified and skewed version of Lander, and let's leave it at that.

©2006sodakey

* * *

**In Reverse**

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996 _

There was a whooshing. A steady humming between his ears.

Cold, grainy dirt was sticking to his jaw.

Dean didn't like the feel of it sitting there but he couldn't brush it away. He couldn't do anything. His hands felt thick, useless, and no matter how he tried, he couldn't get his eyes to open. Everything else felt dull, weighted, and out of his control. _Funny_, he thought, that when everything else seemed so numb, sound could be so amplified.

_Sammy breathes too loud_, he realized.

Who knew twelve-year-olds had such a massive need for oxygen?

Sammy wheezed. Close to him. And through the numbness of his prickly skin Dean could feel a hand fist in his t-shirt. Sammy thought he was unconscious, Dean knew—and knew that always scared the kid. _Hell, who wouldn't it scare?_ But Dean was powerless to tell his brother otherwise—completely unable to tell Sammy he wasn't unconscious at all.

Farther away, the crisp gasps of his father slowed until they could no longer be described as pants. And that other sound—the sound Dean had been listening for before he'd got distracted by the ugly-feeling dirt on his face—was sharply absent, like someone had suddenly unplugged a vacuum that had been left running for hours. The lack of vibration between Dean's ears leaving him to feel peculiar and empty.

"Is the ghost dead, Dad?"

Sammy whispered loudly too. Or maybe with everything else on the fritz, Dean's hearing had been pushed into overdrive. He could hear the rustling of Sammy's jacket against his own pants—could picture his little brother crouching nearby, hand still tangled in the material of his older brother's shirt. Dean wanted the image confirmed, wanted to _see_ it, and really wished his eyelids would start working.

"It's dead, Sammy."

A cold palm penetrated the rubbery feel of Dean's forehead. Enough awareness registering for him to know the hand was large, belonged to his father, and left his skin tingling where it made contact. The touch was comforting and was somehow bringing his numb skin back to life. Another touch followed, and sensation suddenly sharpened enough for him to know the awkward fingers brushing the dirt from his jaw, were Sammy's. _Thank you, Sammy._

"Why is Dean still sleeping, Dad?" The kid was still young enough to exchange words like _sleeping_ for _unconscious_ because they sounded less traumatic. His little brother wouldn't stay in that phase much longer. But _maybe_, Dean thought, maybe I _am_ sleeping. Maybe I can't really hear all of this and I'm just dreaming.

He dismissed that as soon as he thought it. Clarity was too sharp to pretend this reality away.

As if to remind him of that, a strong arm slid beneath his shoulders, another hooked under his knees—the points of contact penetrating and breaking further through the rubbery sensation that had seized him. Vertigo struck as he was lifted and, at sixteen, he felt silly to be carried. Burdensome. He wanted to tell his dad to put him down, but couldn't.

Couldn't move his lips.

Couldn't make his eyelids flicker.

"The ghost just made him real tired, Sam. We'll take him back to the cabin, put him to bed. He'll be fine."

Dean could hear Sammy huff the twelve-year-old boy huff that, loosely translated, meant he'd wanted a real answer—not one so carefully and condescendingly garnered for a six-year-old. Sammy huffed like that a lot lately. Dean would have reassured him if he could have, because he could tell by his father's tone he was telling the truth. Dean's own fears had been alleviated by the juvenile answer. Obviously his father knew what the ghost was capable of—what it had done to him. Dean wondered if his father knew he could still hear them.

For some reason, he doubted it.

"Lift his head, will you, Sammy?"

Sammy's hand materialized underneath Dean's strained neck, easing the tightness, sliding up and pushing on the back of his head till it lolled sideways, resting on the rough corduroy of his father's shoulder. For a moment Dean felt four again—when he'd pretended to be asleep on the couch just to feel the comfort of his mom or dad picking him up and carrying him to bed so gently and carefully he'd felt fragile and valuable and always… _safe_.

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

"Dean."

Dean was dreaming. A fabulous stress-less dream with no ghosts and long island beaches he'd never remember. A hand settled on his shoulder, squeezing.

"_Dean_."

He blinked wide his gritty eyes, taking in his surroundings and sitting up straighter. "Yeah, I'm awake." He nodded at Sam who was watching him from the driver's side of the Impala, looking apologetic. They were sitting in the parking lot of the Pronghorn Lodge in Lander, Wyoming. Dean was about to tell Sam the city park allowed free camping but the same set jaw that had worked his brother into the driver's seat of Dean's own car made the thought useless. Besides, neither of them were big campers, and if it weren't for Sam's overly-compensating and newly discovered fussing, Dean never even would have considered it.

Sam reached into the pocket of Dean's jacket, pulling his wallet and yanking one of the credit cards out with flourish. "Stay here. I'll get the room." Dean watched him take the scammed credit card out of the car and into the clerk's office with a confidence and lack of guilt not often seen. He smirked tiredly, idly wondering how long he'd allow Assertive-Sam this illusion of control.

Assertive-Sam could be hard to stop once he got going. There was skill required in dealing with the ebb and flow of him, though Dean didn't dwell on it all that much. For him, it was intuitive where Sam was concerned. _Sam the control-freak._ Dean shook his head, tiredly leaning it back against the car window after Sam disappeared behind the glass door, letting his mind count off the most recent times Sam's assertive tones had seen fit to take over. "I'm driving," he'd told him after the Wendigo incident, in such a strong voice Dean wondered if he might actually fight should Dean oppose him. "You have got to calm yourself down!" he'd demanded the one and only time they'd been on a plane together. And in St. Louis with the shapeshifter—Dean's favorite—which he hadn't listened to, "Dean, stay out of the sewers alone!" And when Dean hadn't replied, "I mean it!"

Then of course, there were the still too recent events in Nebraska—where Dean's sudden and serious heart condition had been miraculously healed, though not without psychological consequence for either one of them. Even walking into that tent of a church, Sam had displayed assertiveness he never would have had Dean been truly well enough to fight him. When Dean had gone for two seats in the back, Sam had caught his arm and shoulder, pulling, directing him determinedly toward the front, not put off in the slightest when Dean had pushed his hands away and told him to get off him.

It was enough for him to think his little brother actually cared what happened to him. Dean smirked against the window, then darted his eyes toward where Sam had disappeared. As amusingly gratifying as that thought was, Dean was worried about Sam. For someone who'd walked away from their family so completely, he seemed to have more than completely grasped onto them again.

It was odd, and left Dean scrambling to catch up to his own feelings about their life - his missing father, his re-found brother, his dead mother.

He closed his eyes, dropping his head back against the headrest. For now, he'd allow Assertive-Sam to continue. Truthfully, he was too tired not to.

* * *

Sam felt rumpled.

Unnatural creases snaked up and down his mud and rain stiffened jeans. The collar on one side of the button up shirt he wore refused to lie flat, and his damp hair kept going up and out in back. He brushed at it repeatedly, knowing the fuss was futile and recognizing the small vain streak as a longstanding weakness.

He knew he looked bad—he and Dean had pulled to the side of the road to help a woman, who had two children screaming in the backseat of her _Outback,_ change a flat tire in the rain two miles back. The motel clerk—no doubt used to seeing rumpled travelers—gave him a suspicious twice over before handing him the room keys, and seemed to take special note of the Impala's make and model, which made Sam nervous. He hadn't expected Lander's service staff to be quite so picky. He thought of a few excuses he could give for his appearance, but ultimately decided attempting to explain might make him look like more of an axe murderer than he already did.

Dropping his hand away from the back of his head, he took the key without comment. They'd be there a few days and the clerk could suffer his suspicions or ride them out, but couldn't cause them any real problems—Sam hoped. They needed the rest. So much so that Sam was hoping the ghost sightings in Sinks Canyon would prove purely myth.

Some indefinable feeling was telling him otherwise though, and had been telling him otherwise since he'd read about the sightings off his computer in their rented room in Nebraska.

And there were the three missing hikers to consider.

_But maybe this time those vibes were just coincidental_, Sam hoped. _Maybe it's all coincidental_.

And that thought came because they'd been to Lander before. He only vaguely remembered the experience. He'd been twelve at the time and at the time they'd also been chasing a ghost. He couldn't remember the specifics—just that something about the ghost had put Dean into a kind of coma for days after they'd killed it, or rather, after their father had killed it. He remembered that more than the ghost itself—Dean being still and his father trying to constantly reassure him that Dean _would_ wake up and be okay.

Sam remembered remaining scared, no matter how much his father had said so.

It wasn't that he'd thought his dad was lying. It was more the fact that Dean was _never_ still and the fact that the immoveable John Winchester, when he thought his youngest son was sleeping, would sit with sixteen-year-old Dean propped against his chest, rubbing his head and singing softly. Sam hadn't _ever_ heard his father sing before and though barely audible, he'd memorized the words, always meaning to ask Dean about it later.

It was a rare memory, because while his own relationship with his father had been defined by alternating cycles of heated hollering and gentle tenderness—with occasional bouts of fuming silence—Dean's was all gruffness and hidden affection. Whether that was _because_ Dean seemed to struggle with displays of fondness toward him, or the _reason_ he struggled with displays of fondness toward him, remained a mystery to Sam and probably always would.

He was stuck trying to figure most of this out in retrospect—which made some things about his family history clearer and others more hazy. At age eight, or twelve, or even fourteen he'd seen things differently. All he'd known then was Dean was there—the personification of wisdom and coordination. Dean was _responsible_. Dean was the quintessential good son and hunter—and eventually—the person Sam was supposed to be more like but would never measure up to.

Coming back into this life after Stanford... Dean was more human to him now. Maybe his father would be too… if they ever saw him again. Currently, John Winchester was the looming force hanging over them, around them—sometimes between them. Sam still alternated between worry and anger. His father had told them to stop looking—said he was fine, but—Sam remembered when Dean was dying how much he'd just… _wanted_ his dad to come and fix it all. He had figured if _anything_ would spur their father into talking to them again it would have been the thought of losing his oldest son.

He never _had_ asked Dean about the song. He doubted Dean would even know what it was from. He wouldn't have remembered the experience anyway, being unconscious at the time.

Walking back out to the car with the hotel keys, Sam wondered if Dean remembered anything about what all had happened back then and mentally plotted a casual way to bring it up.

In the passenger seat, Dean had his eyes closed and looked way too still. "Dean," Sam called before even reaching the car.

Dean's eyes popped open, finding Sam without effort. "First floor?" he asked, and it was the asking that made Sam worry more. Dean hadn't slept much since leaving Nebraska—had driven most of the way to Wyoming, right up until they'd crossed the state line where he'd finally rescinded the keys to Sam's grip, admitting weariness.

_He's overcompensating_, Sam thought—trying to look and be overly well after the near miss with his failing heart. Sam could see straight through it, could see how the tiredness had set into Dean's eyes as their journey continued—could see aching lethargy take greater hold on him as they neared their destination. He was fairly certain Dean wasn't having a relapse of his heart condition, but it worried him, just the same.

He didn't think now that he'd ever stop worrying about Dean.

"What are you staring at?" Dean asked, annoyed.

"Nothing." Sam slid into the driver's seat. "And yeah, we're on the first floor." He turned the ignition and drove them another thirty yards to their room number.

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996 _

John Winchester opened the back door of the truck where Dean lay sprawled across the bench seat. Dean knew it was John, not Sammy, because even though he still couldn't open his eyes he swore he could feel his little brother's gaze boring into his chest from the truck's front seat.

Strong arms lifted him, wrapped around his chest and pulled him backward across the seat awkwardly. With his numb skin now more awake, he could feel the pain of numerous bruises as he was moved. He would have groaned if he could have—even _knowing_ Sam was listening.

"When's he gonna wake up, Dad?" He heard Sammy climb out the front and shut both doors. Felt Sam's hand lifting his head back up to his father's shoulder.

"Soon, sport. Get the room key from my pocket, will ya?"

Muffled sounds were followed by the clicks of an opening door. Dean felt a rush of vertigo as his father swung him sideways—no doubt trying to get him through the cabin door without catching his feet on the frame. Gently, then, he was placed on one of the beds. His dad's hand came behind his head, lifting to slide a pillow beneath. Another hand, or perhaps the same hand—since Dean couldn't tell—rested heavily on his chest for several long moments. Dean assumed the gesture was meant to check his breathing. He wasn't having any trouble breathing, but he wished his dad would notice that when he'd put him down on the bed his shirt had bunched awkwardly beneath him. Dean wanted to shift it. It aggravated him that he couldn't—like not being able to scratch your nose when it itched.

"Watch him for me, will ya, Sam?"

"Where are you going?" The twelve-year-old huff was bleeding through Sammy's voice loud and clear.

Dean heard the jingling of keys. "I'm going to get us some food and I need to pick up a few things for Dean. I'll be back in just a few minutes, okay?"

"Okay." Dean could tell Sam wanted to protest.

"There's a twenty-two in the black suitcase. Put it somewhere you can reach it."

"I know, Dad."

"Bolt the door after me."

"I _know_."

"Watch your tone."

"Yessir."

"I'll be back soon."

The door opened and shut. There was the sliding sound of the bolt and then silence.

Dean wondered what Sammy would do, left alone with a supposedly unconscious brother. Sam had been reading a lot lately—and not the books on urban legends and world lore their father regularly added to their studies. From Colorado Springs to Cheyenne he'd had his nose buried in a copy of _The Outsiders_. Dean had read it too—had to for school a few years back—then reread it from Cheyenne to Lander when he saw Sammy's interest. He thought the book was alright, but worried his little brother might be over-identifying with it—not the part about warring social classes, but the part that showed most of the characters trapped and frustrated with a life they never would have chosen.

Dean wasn't stupid. He saw the parallels. If Sammy didn't identify with a character like _Ponyboy_, he didn't know who would. And the way Sammy dwelt on some of the pages while sneaking glances at Dean—he'd half expected his little brother to start calling him _Sodapop_. In one of Dean's more sensitive moments he'd wanted to point out to Sammy that in the end of the book the family had each other… and that is what had made everything else okay. He hadn't—not having words enough to bring it up with him. But maybe Sam hadn't been as dense about that part as he suspected.

Sam had taken to watching a lot of TV lately too. Shows that were always on rerun and could be caught nearly anytime in any motel room or rental cabin they resided in. _The Brady Bunch_. _Family Ties_. _Charles in Charge_. Shows Dean just couldn't get into. He figured Sam might take the chance to watch one of these while his father wasn't around to give him a hard time about it. Not that John Winchester didn't allow TV watching. He just thought Sammy did it too much, and didn't understand the use or appeal of watching anyone else's unrealistic lifestyle.

Dean expected to hear Sammy click the remote control—expected to hear the theme song for _The Munsters_ or _Andy Griffith_ playing in the background. Instead he heard the zip of the suitcase sliding open, the click of metal on wood as the weapon inside was placed within easy reach. Then, he felt Sam's fingers on his shirt, straightening it downward, un-bunching the wrinkle under his back.

The bed jiggled as his brother climbed onto it, slight weight giving on Dean's right side as the kid stretched next to him and stretched Dean's arm out so he could lay his head on it in a way Dean was sure would make it go numb again.

The only sound for some time after was the steadiness of their breathing falling into sync.

"Wake up, Dean," Sammy said later, more as though he were talking to the room at large rather than Dean himself. Like a plea, or a prayer.

_I'm trying, Sammy, _Dean thought.

_I will._

* * *

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

Warnings: introspection and general overall wordiness, creative license taken with the use of incomplete sentences… etc.

* * *

**Part 2**

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

There was a family diner in the parking lot of the Pronghorn Lodge. The Oxbow. Neither Dean nor Sam had the desire to seek out anything farther. They'd showered and slept some, changed into clean clothes, but both remained tired.

They slipped into the diner, taking a table in the corner, per their routine, because that was what all this had become. As strange as their lives could be, it was comforting to recognize some of the constants. Places that served pancakes anytime of the day, where they could sit anonymously amongst an anonymous horde, were one of them.

Therefore it was a shock to both when a voice _not-Dean's_ called Sam's name out from across the restaurant. "Sam? Oh my gosh! Sam Winchester, it is you!"

Dean and Sam looked up to see a perky brunette with dark ringlets coming toward them. "Guys, look! It's Sam Winchester!"

They looked to where she was calling to and saw a group of young twenty-somethings packed around a table in the opposite corner. Dean looked back at Sam for confirmation that he either knew them, or that the brunette was crazy, but Sam was in the process of standing, total surprise on his face. "Kim? Wow," he said. He stepped out from their table just in time to catch "Kim" in a hug. "What are you guys doing here?"

"What are _we_ doing here? What are _you_ doing here? Nobody's heard from you in months!"

Dean stood awkwardly as the rest of Kim's table descended, two additional girls giving Sam quarter-hugs while a quartet of guys gripped Sam's hand and thumped him on the back.

"Yeah, I've been… busy," Sam stuttered to the queries, making an uncomfortable gesture at Dean. "I've been… traveling with my brother. We're just passing through."

"Right, right," said Kim. "You mentioned you were on a road trip with your brother a while back. I thought you would have been done with that by now," she continued, as though traveling around with your big brother was a juvenile phase Sam should have outgrown, or worse, a bad habit she'd expected Sam to have finally kicked. Nevertheless, Kim looked at Dean and held out her hand. Dean hesitated before reaching to grip it, returning her completely insincere and overly polite smile with one of his own. _Yeah_, he thought, _this is going to go well._

"I'm Kim," she said, and Dean got the feeling she thought she was talking to a four-year-old, or someone who could be accused of being equally as dense.

"So I gathered," he answered, letting pretense fall from his face. Sam subtly elbowed him, which meant his little brother had caught onto his snideness but not his female friend's snub.

"Kim was Jess's roommate freshman year," Sam explained, and the delicate hush that followed the near whisper of her name wasn't entirely unexpected. "This is my older brother Dean," Sam supplied quickly, breaking the awkward quiet that always gathered where the dead were named. "Dean, these are some of my friends from Stanford. Kim, Donna, Sara," Sam pointed to the females in turn. "And this is Garrett, Charlie, Blake, and… I'm sorry I don't think I've met you."

The fourth male leaned forward to shake Sam and Dean's hands in turn. "I'm Jack," he informed, looking for a moment like he might say more, and maybe like he was as thrilled with these introductions as Dean was.

The one Sam called Charlie jumped in. "And Jack is _my_ older brother," he supplied, looking behind him at the taller Jack, "who has never gone with me on any sort of road trip, ever." Jack pretended to look offended while two of the girls, not Kim, giggled.

"Doctor Jack?" Sam questioned, in a tone that said he'd heard of Jack before, probably more than once. Charlie nodded as Jack's eyes flickered subtly, probably wondering what his brother had said about him—maybe as curious about this bizarre meeting as Dean was.

Dean held his own questions back. He found himself doing what came to him as habit on a job—observing and evaluating. As usual, his little brother was an intrinsic part of the procedure. Dean had learned that added details of any situation could be gathered, not by reading just the surroundings, but by reading Sam. Sam, he was an expert at—more or less—and right then Sam was nearly vibrating with rapidly changing energy—nervousness, excitement, shock, all with a subdued undertone that felt to Dean like sorrow.

Sam had one hand stuffed in a pocket and was rocking from foot to foot while he talked—something Dean had seen him do off and on when Sam had been introducing him to Rebecca Warren. Sam's eventual relaxing of that habit is what had helped Dean decide Rebecca was probably an alright person. The group currently in front of him was harder to read.

Older-brother Jack looked like what Dean always thought a doctor should look like—kind, impassive, intelligent, and possibly a little boring. He picked Blake—and maybe Sara—out as intellectual society brats—subtly vibed, and possibly unfair, especially when it seemed clear Charlie and Jack were the ones that came from money.

All in all, the group oozed a combination of faux college grunge dashed with intellectual superiority.

Not knowing how else to support Sam through the shock of colliding with his old life Dean shuffled half a step closer, their sleeves touching as Dean leaned into the introductions. Whether conscious of it or not, Sam shot him a look both grateful and concerned.

"Nice to meet you, Dean. How long are the two of you in town for?" Charlie was saying. Charlie, at least, seemed sincere.

Dean was about to answer, 'not long' but Sam beat him to speaking. "Not sure, really," Sam told them. "We're just… taking a break from the road." Dean wanted to elbow him back but couldn't do so without being obvious.

"Perfect!" claimed Charlie, confirming what Dean feared might happen. It was clear the group was on some sort of get-away-from-school trip, and had they just answered with, 'no, sorry, we're leaving tonight,' he wouldn't have to see Sam get all broody about a possible reunion with his college life. "The two of you can join us at the cabin," Charlie finished, looking between the brothers, then back at the nodding heads of the group.

"Charlie's family owns a resort cabin about twenty minutes west of here," explained Donna, leaning into Charlie's arm. She was pretty, Dean thought. Straight hair, long and black. She looked like a hippy. Maybe a little stuck up, the way she looked at him, but not as stuck up as the Kim-girl, he decided. Then she blinked, looked away, blushing slightly, and Dean changed his mind to think she wasn't so much stuck-up as she was unblamably impressed with his handsome face. He smiled and didn't miss it when Charlie tightened his arm around her.

"There's plenty of room," Jack was adding to the conversation. Dean refocused. "You're welcome to join us… er… join _them_. They're going to be spending a few days climbing and hiking." Dean realized Jack looked older than the rest of the group. Not drastically so, but older.

Charlie rolled his eyes, tapping Sam on the shoulder. "Right. Sam, Jack is your kind of people. He's going to spend the week sitting and boringly reading and studying. He's in his residency as a trauma surgeon." Charlie looked at Dean who assumed the last part had been added for his benefit. And Charlie wasn't finished, "The rest of us are going to have a blast." He slapped Sam's arm. "Since you're not in school, if you come, I won't let his boringness rub off on you. What do you say?"

"Says the Harvard-bound law student." Sam lightly punched Charlie back then seemed to abruptly remember their circumstances. He glanced uncomfortably at Dean. "Uh, I don't know if…"

Dean could tell Sam wanted to go or, at the very least, was finding it difficult to say no. What could be more appealing than hanging out with your school friends in a giant cabin, pretending to be a regular Joe among them? Dean went in for the rescue. "We're not really planning to stay here long," he explained, "but… uh… Sam would love to join you for dinner." He gave his brother a small shove forward.

"What about you?" asked Charlie.

"I'm feeling a little under the weather… it's why we stopped," he fabricated. "I just came over to the diner so Sam would have someone to eat with."

"You're just here in the Lodge then?"

"Yeah. Thanks for the invitation. Sam will enjoy the company. I'm going to head back to our room for some rest."

Kim, Dean noticed, looked relieved.

Sam did not.

"_Dean_," Sam turned toward him, protesting.

"Just go eat, Sam." Dean gave him another small shove and started toward the door while the group of Stanfordians migrated back to their table.

"Just a second," Dean heard Sam tell them, and wasn't surprised when a halting hand landed on his shoulder. "Dean, you should stay," Sam said once he'd turned Dean to face him.

"Nah, Sammy, you deserve a night with your buddies and I'm still a little tired… not up to the crowd and inevitable geek-speak," he admitted. Pretense would be too hard for him with the way he was feeling, and he knew it.

"Dean," Sam pestered, his name said so full of doubt.

"Sam, it's fine. I could use a night without your sorry-self to worry about."

Sam smiled a little, but leaned closer—catching his elbow and taking on the assertive look Dean had been letting him get away with for far too long. "You need to eat."

Dean smirked lightly, prepared to take back the role of brother-in-charge. "I don't have much of an appetite right now… as tempting as it would be to watch my geek-boy sidekick in his natural habitat. You can bring me something back later, okay?" He tapped the back of his hand into Sam's chest. The gesture was meant to be reassuring and final.

"_Dean._" Sam obviously wasn't wanting to give up his fleeting power so easily.

"Sammy, go eat with your friends," Dean ordered. He broke the grip on his elbow and pushed his way out of the diner without looking back. He didn't need to see the scowl on Sam's face to know it was there… or to know Sam was watching him… or to know in about thirty seconds Sam would walk back to his friends' table and possibly brood or pout for another five minutes before finally deciding to have fun with them. Knew calling him _Sammy_ was a sure fire way to re-established the balance of power.

* * *

Dean walked unhurriedly back to the hotel room, hoping he'd made the right decision regarding Sam. He hadn't lied. He _was_ still tired, and not real certain he was up to eating. And this could be good for Sam—getting away from ghosts and goblins for a few hours, maybe feel normal again. Because—nightmares aside—Sam had been turning worry into an art form. Dean just hoped this didn't backfire on him—which it could. Sam could end up spending their entire next job distracted, lonesome for Jess and Stanford, and remembering all the reasons he'd once been so angry with Dean and their Dad. These days Dean wondered if Sam remembered those feelings at all—with how ardently he'd thrown himself back into everything.

Dean had never known—or in truth, just hadn't acknowledged knowing—what all Sam's angry feelings had been about. He hadn't acknowledged it because the whole Sam-leaving—it'd been painful for him too. And he preferred not to think about it—at all. Yet there were times he couldn't seem to _avoid_ thinking about it.

Which brought his thoughts full circle—they just needed a break. _Sam_ needed a break.

Once Dean reached the hotel room door, he allowed himself to turn around. He could see Sam, just barely, through the blinking blinds of the restaurant. As Dean suspected, Sam had allowed himself to be led back to the table and was now sitting amidst his crowd of friends. _Please let this just be a relaxing night for him._ It wasn't a prayer exactly—just an extremely ardent thought sent out to whatever in the universe might hear or grant hidden pleas.

Then, while he watched, Sam _smiled_. And though Dean couldn't be sure from his hazy viewpoint through the half open blinds—it looked like, after the smile, Sam had started laughing. The idea of his little brother laughing seemed so elusive and pure it stole his breath. _Did Sam laugh these days? Did he smile?_ Somehow Dean couldn't remember—couldn't be sure.

For a moment he felt a horrifying fear, and since he was almost always honest with himself, he acknowledged that this fear wasn't for Sam, it was for himself. When his dad disappeared… _left..._ Dean had wanted Sam back with him. He hadn't wanted to be alone. If five minutes with his friends had Sam laughing—how close was Dean to losing him again? More pointedly, how selfish was he to keep Sam in the family business? Was the quest to find what killed Jess and their mother really Sam's goal… or the one Dean and their dad had led him to by simply raising him the way they had?

Dean shook his head, pressing his back into the door—shrugging the feeling away from him. He was asking questions that couldn't be answered. Evaluating a past that couldn't be changed.

Finally peeling his gaze away, he fit his key into the lock and stepped inside, fully planning to spend the night thinking not at all about the ghosts in Sinks Canyon, and maybe only worrying about his little brother a little bit. Tossing his jacket on the room's table, he slid back on one of the beds with a sigh and started flipping through channels with the remote after making sure his gun and knife were both in reach.

He wasn't much of a TV watcher, but he loved movies as long as they weren't chick flicks. Despite that, for some reason, he paused on channel eight when he realized the station was right in the middle of showing _The Outsiders_.

For a moment he watched as the Greasers and the Socs faced off for an all out rumble. Darry, Sodapop, and Ponyboy striking GQ stances against the night scenery.

"I am _way_ prettier than Rob Lowe," he said to the empty room, punching down the volume a smidge, planning to let the movie play while he closed his eyes for just a while.

* * *

Fumed into silence by being called _Sammy_ nearly loud enough for his friends to hear, Sam watched Dean leave. Wanting to stop him. Wanting to make sure he was okay. Wanting to say something. Anything.

As usual, when it came to dealing with his stubborn brother, polite words failed him. The thing was… he really did think Dean should eat.

"Sam." Kim was at his elbow, following his worried gaze to Dean's back. "Is everything okay?"

Sam caught his eyes in Kim's. She was pretty, and he actually remembered a time he'd considered dating her—but that was before he'd met Jessica. "Yeah," he mumbled to her, deciding to go off Dean's story. "Everything's okay. Dean's just… he's not been feeling well and I'm not sure I should leave him alone."

Kim smiled. "Come on." She caught his hand and pulled him toward their table. "Everyone needs some alone time now and then."

"Maybe," he mumbled, letting himself be led. He wasn't sure alone time _was_ what Dean really needed. Dean had been… _introspective_… since Nebraska, thinking about things Sam couldn't quite guess at. It made him worry. In addition, ever since Dean's heart-thing—which they'd taken to calling it, if they referred to it at all—Sam had become more keenly and generally _aware_ of Dean. Where he was. How he was doing. It made him feel off balance when Dean wasn't somewhere in his peripheral.

He knew the hyper attention was throwing _Dean_ off balance and was probably half the reason he'd pushed Sam to spend the evening away from him. But Sam couldn't help it. He didn't _like _feeling scared for Dean. It was something he just couldn't seem to shake.

The additional problem being, he didn't know if his fears were natural or if his newfound spidey sense was trying to tell him something.

"Sam?"

Sam let his gaze stray back to Kim. He let his lips spread in a calm attempt at smiling. "Sorry, you're right. Everyone needs some time alone."

Kim winked at him and slid into her chair. Another place setting had already been brought for him and he took it, looking at the friends from his former college life… vestiges of what he once hoped for.

He felt distinctly out of place—like dissonance.

"Is your brother going to be alright?" Sam looked left to see Charlie's brother had addressed him. "He did look a little pale."

Charlie elbowed him, leaning toward Sam. "Doctor to the core, my brother."

But Sam wondered—if a _stranger_ had noticed Dean looked pale—how ill might that mean Dean really was? His brother was tired and possibly coming down with something Sam didn't want to end up catching. At least, that's what he kept telling himself. He really wanted that to be all there was to it. "Yeah, yeah," he supplied when he realized Jack was still looking at him. Forcing nonchalance and forcing away the Dean-voice in his head that called him a hypocrite and a pretender even while he spoke, Sam explained, "He was sick a few weeks back—he's better now but hasn't been sleeping much."

_He had a massive heart attack but was healed by a nice preacher and his satanic wife_.

What else would he end up editing this evening in the attempt to make himself and Dean both seem… _normal_? He'd done it before. But suddenly it seemed so much more difficult. He didn't know if he was up to managing the two-step.

Jack looked like he might ask more about Dean having been sick but Blake made an unrelated comment. The issue was buried. And everyone moved on to different things.

Early in the evening Sam got away with telling them his brother and his dad worked as independent consultants for investigative work… then had to backtrack because he realized it sounded like he was trying too hard. When Sara asked if that was "like a private investigator" Sam just nodded.

No one touched the topic of Jess—though it hovered in the air between them. And Sam was grateful.

He and Charlie did a lot of, "Do you remember the time we…"

Garrett and Blake did a lot of teasing him and Charlie about, "Do you remember the time when you two…"

Donna, Sara, and Kim indulged in the reminiscence as well, starting into many stories which Sam knew included Jess, but became tactfully edited, and though awkward, Sam was grateful for that too.

Jack sat in polite detachment—so _not _what Dean would have done if he'd spent the evening with his little brother's friends. Dean's absence annoyed Sam and he consciously and repeatedly had to push those thoughts away.

Only twice was Sam asked when he'd be heading back to school. The first questioning by Kim was easily deflected. The second questioning by Blake was not.

"Well—with everything that… that happened, I missed my interview, and…"

He was thinking up more excuses when Blake cut him off. "You can get another interview, man. I'm working as a TA for Professor Grossman this fall. He'll remember you from his pre-law class. He'd recommend you for another interview in a minute. I can speak with him. You shouldn't give up just because of… what happened."

Sam suddenly remembered this about Blake—driven to help others achieve their dreams. He and Jess had been friends before Sam had met either one, and Jess always said whenever she got discouraged, all she had to do was call Blake. When Sam had gotten discouraged she'd occasionally teased him into doing the same thing.

Ultimately, Sam just nodded, not having another way to deflect. He figured, before he left—if Blake pushed it—he could write down his number like he was going to call and then he could just come up with something to tell him later. Some excuse. Law-school wasn't in the future for Sam. Not anymore. It was a bit bittersweet—the conversation about what might have been. The ugly memory of having once had a life. He shuttered that thought, closing it off. He had a life now, and though it was as screwed up as anyone's life could ever be, it truly wasn't half bad—missing father and heart-attacking brother aside.

And there was the hope—vaguely out there—that all of this would be for something in the end. The vague hope that a semblance of normalcy awaited him and Dean on the other side of his mom's and Jess's killer.

And that was it. Blake moved on to something else and Sam actually felt like he was going to get through the evening without his two lives massively colliding. He grinned, relaxing as he dug into his pocket for his portion of the bill, planning to finish his coffee, collect the to-go boxes for Dean, and look back on this rare evening with old friends with only slightly bothersome nostalgia.

It was, of course, at that exact moment when Charlie mentioned ghosts.

* * *

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

Warnings: Spoilers—always. Exposition heavy—not my favorite to write but every story needs it.

* * *

**Part 3**

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006_

"We're going with my friends to the cabin." Sam tossed his jacket at the bed and wasn't gentle when he kicked his foot back to shut the hotel room door behind him.

Dean—sprawled fully clothed on the far bed with the TV turned low as it rolled through a showing of _Goonies_—came instantly awake, sliding the knife back under his pillow when he registered Sam's voice. True to form, once fully awake, Dean didn't have to backtrack much to catch up with what his brother was saying. "What? Wait—why?" he asked.

Appraising him, Sam decided Dean wasn't looking as pale as before. He let the knot that had settled in his stomach when Dean had walked out of the restaurant _alone_ untwist a little. Felt himself begin to breathe easier. Felt the tension in the muscles lining his spine ease with being back in Dean's company.

He kicked out a chair from the room's tiny table and sat, drawing the bag with his laptop closer while he did so, then answered Dean's question. "Well, according to Charlie, part of their little 'vacation' includes a night hike into 'Ghost Canyon' which is apparently what the locals are calling Sinks' south fork these days."

Dean was looking around himself for the remote control. Finding it, he clicked the TV off. Sam watched carefully as Dean rolled his shoulders, wincing minutely when his brother cracked his neck to both sides, ridding himself from the stiffness of his nap.

And Sam waited, knowing Dean would have something to say about his friends' planned excursion.

Sure enough, Dean drew in his eyebrows and opened his mouth, "They're going ghost hunting? I thought these were kids from Stanford?"

"Meaning?"

"Meaning they should be too intellectual and stuffy to do stuff like that."

Sam grimaced. "Maybe regularly. This week they're just a bunch of college buddies looking to spend time together and maybe find a few thrills."

"I repeat—what kind of friends are you hanging out with?"

Sam ignored that. He popped open his laptop and waited for the internet connection. "And get this—Charlie told me two of the missing hikers have been found."

"Dead or alive?"

"Alive. I somehow missed it when I was reading about it before." Sam called up the articles he'd read in Nebraska then opened a new window for the updated articles he'd missed as he swung the face of the computer toward Dean. "Searchers found one of them hiking on the _same_ trail he disappeared from after three days of searching for him—guy couldn't remember a thing and, in fact, thought it was the _same day_ as when he went missing. He was dehydrated and malnourished but said he couldn't remember anything about what happened. He told searchers he thought his friends had just left him behind because he was hiking too slow and that he was trying to catch up to them."

Dean frowned. "Sounds like an alien abduction."

"_Dean_," Sam moaned dismissively in a please-be-serious voice.

"Hey—if ghosts are real."

Arguing was pointless. Sam moved on. "That guy was the third hiker. The second hiker was found unconscious in the middle of the same trail she disappeared from—which wasn't far from where the guy went missing. She was carried out on a stretcher. Doctors couldn't find anything wrong with her and she woke up in the hospital two days later not remembering anything."

Dean appeared more serious now. "What about the first hiker?"

"Addison Wright. They still haven't found her. The only difference I can see is she's a local—the other two were from out-of-state. And, if the information is accurate, she didn't disappear in quite the same spot."

"The two survivors still around?" Dean came closer, kicking another chair out from the table to sit with Sam, peering at the article titled _Hikers Blame Ghosts for Missing Friend_. The title was clearly meant more to get attention than to indicate actual belief in ghosts but—

"I don't know—probably all gone back home, but I figure we could do a Search and Rescue impersonation. Get their information, try to call 'em."

"Good idea." Dean didn't look at him. He was reading. "Says here the group was hiking on the trail when fog rolled through the canyon—when it rolled back out, their friend wasn't with them anymore." Dean sort of half snorted. "Sounds pretty Casper-like to me, but I'm not ruling out little green men."

Sam gave his brother the obligatory eye roll when Dean glanced up for his reaction. "Oh, and Jack says the local library is just a few blocks from the Lodge—we can hit it tomorrow, see if there's any local information on the canyon or whatever."

Dean nodded but still didn't look at him, evidently engrossed in another article.

Sam watched his face for a long moment—hesitating. "Dean? Do you remember when we were here before—the ghost dad was hunting here ten years ago?"

Dean punched something on the keyboard and glanced at Sam absently. "Yeah, a little, why?"

Sam faltered, feeling nervous for no reason he could explain. "I just wonder if maybe all the stuff going on now is related."

Dean didn't even look at him to dismiss the thought. "Couldn't be, Sam. First, Dad killed that ghost. Second, back then we were dealing with a haunted cabin—a haunted cabin in the north fork. These disappearances have nothing to do with a cabin—and they all took place in the s_outh _fork… all on the same general trail it looks like."

"Right," agreed Sam, sucking his cheek into his teeth a moment before pushing forward, "—but don't you think there're some similarities?"

"Like what?"

"The victims for one—the girl being in a coma and then just… waking up." Sam swallowed, his mouth dry—_was he imagining things or had his voice shook?_

"Exactly, Sam—she woke up. Dad went to investigate back then because nobody woke up. People were dying."

"You did."

Dean looked up from the computer—straight at him—expression slightly surprised, as if Sam wasn't supposed to remember anything bad happening to Dean—_ever_. As though Sam could have forgotten the eternity he'd waited just to see Dean twitch.

Sam looked down. He scratched his thumbnail across the table top. "We should at least check Dad's journal—see if it could be related somehow," he tempered, trying to turn his voice into _confidently gentle_. Unsure about what Dean even remembered of that time.

"I don't think there's much in the journal on that, but I'll look." Dean was switching off the computer—apparently having gotten over his surprise of Sam's good memory—sounding annoyingly unmoved. "In the meantime," Dean told him, pushing the computer away from himself, "you should get some sleep. When do your friends think we're joining them?"

"Charlie gave me directions to the cabin. Told 'em we'd see 'em tomorrow. We can hit the library first. And _you_ should eat."

For some reason, Sam was relieved to see Dean smile.

"I'll eat if you sleep," Dean said, pulling the to-go boxes toward him, opening one with a cautious sniff.

Complying, Sam moved toward the bathroom, grabbing the pants he planned to sleep in as he went. He was just about to close the door when Dean called to him, "Hey, you're not going to get all broody about being back with the Stanford crowd, are you?" Dean sounded a touch irritated but Sam had long since learned to translate that into concerned.

"Nah," he waved a hand absently. "I mean, I can't promise I won't get a little nostalgic but—"

"You won't run away to join a traveling law school in the middle of the night?"

"I promise," Sam grinned, lingering in the doorway for an extra second. If Dean's comment didn't say it all about their family he didn't know what did.

* * *

Jack drove Charlie and his friends the final leg to the cabin in the large white twelve passenger van their parents left there year round. The same van Jack had driven to pick them up when the small plane they'd arrived in landed in Cheyenne. Charlie was actually surprised Jack had made the effort, because even though Jack was currently staying at the cabin, he could have easily sent someone—a driver—or had Charlie charter a driving service, rent a car, anything.

He hadn't had to do it himself.

Not that Charlie didn't think his brother capable of such niceties—it just seemed impractical and unnecessary. Two things he didn't think his older brother indulged in.

Jack was alright as brothers went. Truthfully, Charlie didn't have another to compare him to. And though Jack joked with him and occasionally teased him like an older brother should, there was formality and distance there that had always existed in their family. A formality and distance Jack seemed to embrace.

Charlie struggled with the concept a bit more—figuring, in that respect, he was the black sheep of the family.

It wasn't bad. He'd just always wished he had a bit more of an actual _relationship_ with his brother.

That night, he'd felt a little jealous—watching Sam with his brother when they'd first run into them. They seemed close. Charlie had always thought it was a good thing—what Dean had done for Sam after Jess's death—picking him up from Stanford, taking him on the road to help him get away from it all.

It was a horrid thought, but Charlie wondered what kind of support he'd get from his own family if Donna was ever taken away from him like that—wondered what would have happened if it had been Donna in a fire instead of Jess.

Would _Jack_ have driven—or flown—cross country to stand with him at the funeral? Would he have dropped everything to take his baby brother on a road trip so he could heal and forget?

Charlie blinked, recognizing his thoughts as silly—maybe even as needy and insecure. He looked down at Donna's black hair where her head rested on his shoulder. _Don't borrow trouble,_ he superstitiously told himself.

He didn't know what he'd do if something happened to Donna. They'd been friends nearly a year before he decided he liked her—and by then she'd been dating Blake. After that he'd had to wait a respectfully appropriate amount of time after their brake up to even give it a try—not wanting to be the rebound guy, and not wanting to upset their little circle of friends by causing conflict. Not wanting to upset their circle of friends by not trying to _stay _friends with both of them.

And finally, he'd had to woo her—a long six-month process designed to convince her that dating would _not _ruin their fabulous friendship.

Sam and Jess both had helped in that process—Jess excited with every endeavor, reminding him repeatedly, "You two are perfect for each other—she'll figure it out soon enough."

Charlie was sorry for what happened to Jess. She'd been a good friend. He missed her. But he shuddered at the idea of she and Donna switching places.

"That was so weird seeing Sam again."

Charlie looked behind him to see who had broken the van's silence. Garrett. Garrett had spoken.

"Definitely!" joined Sara, as though she'd been waiting for someone else to bring it up. "Incredibly weird! He looked pretty good though."

"I can't believe he's still just traveling around with his brother," said Blake. "I mean—you'd think he'd be over everything by now."

Charlie heard a thump and whoosh of breath and didn't have to look to know Sara had just smacked the back of her hand into Blake's stomach.

"I'm sorry, Sara. I'm not trying to be insensitive. I miss Jess too, and I know she and Sam were really in love… but it's been like _months_, and he's still just road tripping with his brother?"

Donna sat up straight, shifting away from Charlie to turn sideways and join the conversation. "He lost, like, the love of his life, Blake. What is it you think he's supposed to be doing?"

"Getting his butt back to school," Blake answered. "I mean—no way would Jess have wanted this for him. And if his big brother is supposed to be taking him on this road trip to help him get over it—he can't be doing a very good job."

"Yeah," said Kim. "What _did_ you guys think of his brother?"

"What do you mean?" asked Garrett.

"Well—he seemed a little controlling, didn't he?"

"What?" Charlie was fully into the conversation now, wondering how Kim came up with these ideas. Her viewpoints regarding Sam were always suspect in his mind. Mainly because she'd always had a thing for Sam, which the rest of them recognized—possible exception of Sam aside—but didn't talk about. She'd tried better to hide it once Sam had started dating Jess, but sometimes—like now—Charlie could tell the crush was still there.

"I don't know," Kim answered. "Just the way Sam was like _afraid_ to be away from him… like he couldn't spend one evening out with anyone else. And his brother didn't look that sick to me."

Charlie met Jack's eyes in the rearview mirror. He wasn't an expert on what made a person look sick, but he'd bought Sam's story about Dean having been ill. He knew his brother had too.

"You're reaching, Kim." Donna liked Kim—considered her one of her close friends but that never stopped her from telling the truth. Donna was unfailingly blunt. Though it grated on others who saw it as a character flaw, it was one of the things Charlie liked most about her.

"Yeah," agreed Charlie. "What are you even basing that on? His brother seemed pretty open to the idea of Sam eating with us. He's the one that _told_ Sam to eat with us."

Kim brushed a stray curl behind her ear. "All I'm saying is Blake could be right. If his big brother is supposed to be helping him, why hasn't he? I mean why is Sam still out on the road instead of trying to get back into Stanford? He's too good to waste his life like that."

"I don't think spending time with your family after a loss like that is wasteful," Charlie defended. "If something like that happened to me I don't think I'd just be able to forget it and move on—and it'd be nice if my family were around to help me." A small silence followed his declaration and he felt suddenly silly for voicing the random thoughts that had been racing through his brain earlier—felt even sillier when his eyes again met Jack's in the rearview mirror.

He dropped his gaze away, glad it was too dark for his brother to see his slightly embarrassed blush.

Their family wasn't real big on being needed or being… _there_ for each other. They were all for honor and study and hard work but _warm and affectionate_—not so much. Even if _he_ died he wasn't all that sure anyone would be able to reach his parents wherever they were in Europe. If his girlfriend died he'd probably end up getting a generic card from them six months after the fact—if they mentioned it at all.

"I don't think it's wasteful either," said Donna, leaning into him again. "Besides, his brother was way cute."

"Hey!" Charlie protested, knowing she was baiting him but unable to resist.

"Not as cute as you," she laughed, seemingly glad she'd got a rise out of him.

Charlie almost thought the conversation was over, but Kim wasn't finished. "I'm not knocking the gesture, Charlie, I'm knocking the timing—the fact that Dean still has him out traveling the road. And, by the way, Dean came to get Sam _before_ Jess died."

"What? When?"

"The weekend before the fire," Kim informed. "Jess called to talk. She was worried. She told me Sam's brother had shown up unexpectedly and that Sam had left with him for the weekend because of some family emergency. She was worried because Sam didn't seem too happy to see him and was really evasive when Jess tried to get the details."

_That was nothing out of the ordinary_, thought Charlie. Sam had always been evasive about his family.

Kim cleared her throat and kept going, "Jess thought his brother might be trouble—which I think he might be. I mean you guys know how little Sam ever talked about his family. There has to be a reason for that and I can't think of anything good."

"She's right," Garrett piped in. "When Sam was going to interview for that scholarship he acted like his family couldn't have cared less. Which is just—bizarre. There had to have been something going on there."

"If Dean was such trouble—why did Sam leave with him?" asked Charlie. "Sam's not stupid."

"Jess said something about Sam's dad being missing—on a hunting trip. His brother wanted Sam to help look for him." It was Blake, not Kim, now doing the informing. Several questioning eyes turned in his direction. "She called me that weekend too."

"He didn't look like trouble to me," said Sara. "Besides, Sam was back with Jess when the fire started. He's the one that called 911, so his weekend trip with his brother was obviously over. Dean probably just turned around and came back when he heard what happened."

They processed that and, for a minute, the car returned to silence.

"Hey." It was Garrett again who broke the quiet. "Wasn't the guy who killed Zack's girlfriend in St. Louis named Winchester?"

"Oh, now what are you saying? Sam's brother is a murderer?" Charlie looked back in time to see Sara roll her eyes at the end of the comment.

"No," answered Garrett. "But wasn't it?"

Donna shook her head. "I don't think Rebecca ever said the name of the guy who did it."

"Maybe not, but I think I remember the suspect was a Winchester."

"You guys are mental," said Charlie. "Zack e-mailed me when he got out of jail and said the real killer was shot trying to break back into his and Rebecca's house. Whether he was a Winchester or not—the guy is _dead_ and clearly has nothing to do with Sam or his brother."

That seemed to silence everyone.

"Well," said Kim. "They're both joining us tomorrow. I guess we'll find out more about his brother then."

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996 _

As his numb skin continued its _thaw_—for want of a better word—Dean started to realize how much he _ached_. He was almost grateful Sam's heavy head was deadening his right arm—making it the one appendage with nerve endings that remained relatively dull and that felt no pain at all.

He wished for a minute that he truly was unconscious, or at least able to put his mind at rest enough to sleep through some of this. But his awareness—and the still amplified sensation of sound prevented it.

Next to him, Sammy's loud but even breathing told him his little brother had fallen asleep. Which Dean was glad about… until he heard the scratching on the door.

_Scratching!_

A thousand possible supernatural sources for the sound screamed through his head.

Next to him, Sammy sat bolt upright.

Dean racked his mind in frustration. He sent a thousand commands from brain to body to just _move_ but nothing happened.

The bed shook—he felt Sammy lean across him for the twenty-two. He heard clicks and clacks as Sammy banged it against the wood nightstand and cocked it. _Damn, why couldn't he just move?_ His father never should have left—not with Dean unable to protect his little brother from whatever may be out there in the dark.

Then he heard the voice. "Sammy, open the door, it's me."

"_Codeword_," yelled Sam, bed shifting as he slid off it.

_Good boy, Sammy_, Dean thought.

"Joni loves Chachi," came his father's tired voice. If Dean could have laughed he would have. His dad had only himself to blame—he'd let Sammy pick it.

His brother shuffled forward and the bolt clicked as it slid back—door creaking as it opened. He could tell his father was carrying things—from the shuffling sound of bags to the shift in his walk, Dean sensed he was weighted down. There was more shifting as Sammy presumably took some of the items from his father, thumping them on the dresser where the TV sat.

It wasn't long before his dad's large hand settled on Dean's head—then shifted to his chest. Dean had been expecting both touches—had been inwardly cringing, expecting the heavy hand to amplify the body aches where it connected with his skin. To his awe, it didn't. The pressure, first on his forehead, eased the strain building behind his eyes—the subsequent contact with his breastbone pushing back the tingling ache that had started pulsing through him with each beat of his heart.

When the hand left him, he wanted to tell his father to put it back.

"How's he doing, sport?" his dad's voice echoed over him, abnormally loud.

"He hasn't moved."

"Made any sound?"

Dean couldn't hear Sam's answer and assumed Sammy had just shook his head.

"You said he'd wake up soon."

"It won't be immediate, Sammy, but he will, okay?"

Silence.

"He'll be fine. Okay?"

"Okay," Sam finally answered. And Dean thought his little brother sounded younger than he'd sounded in a long long time.

* * *

tbc

* * *

Again, thank you for the encouraging reviews.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006_

Sam was still sleeping soundly when Dean awoke.

It seemed a peaceful sleep. Dean didn't remember Sam stirring from any middle-of-the-night wake-up-in-a-cold-sweat horror-fests-in-his-mind either. All good things, Dean considered. He'd been half expecting the Jess nightmares to reappear and, despite feeling worn out, hadn't really slept the first half the night from the anticipation of it.

It would have made sense, Sam having spent the previous evening with people who knew her. Knew him. Knew _them _as Sam and Jess. His old friends—her friends.

But Sam hadn't dreamed—at least no dreams that Dean knew of. _Apparently only their side of life brought nightmares_. Dean processed the thought—could've let it linger, could've let it be bitter, but didn't allow either. If Sam slept through the night at all, he was happy.

Silently, he moved out of his own bed, not wanting to stir the calm—wanting to let Sam sleep as much as possible. He felt much better than he had the day before—the achiness of the cold or flu they'd both worried was settling into him seemed to have passed, leaving mere vestiges of general weariness.

Unfortunately, the bathroom mirror told a different story.

Dean entered mutely, taking care of basics before turning warm water on in the sink, using it to scrub the sleep from his face. When he looked up to meet his own eyes, he was bothered to see the shade of pale lacing them at the corners, weaving into his skin, making his mouth look tight. Scowling, he scrubbed again—cold water this time. And this time, he didn't look back in the mirror when he finished—went noiselessly back into the main room for his bag instead, seeking to collect the clothes he'd be changing into after his shower.

He was working free a rolled pair of jeans when his eyes fell on the leather tan of their father's journal.

Glancing over at Sam, he saw his little brother was motionless. Breathing evenly. Hopefully still sleeping soundly.

Discarding the jeans, Dean pulled out the book.

The curtains over the window on the far side of the room were drawn in only partway. Dean carried the journal over to the table, near the window, where the light was brighter, and opened it.

There were two general sections in their Dad's journal. The first was less organized and contained a few of the more rare and personal recollections John Winchester had recorded. Section two was slightly more orderly—an indexed listing of nearly every evil their Dad had encountered—and some he hadn't—including the basic tenants of how to expel, kill, or defeat them.

Dean had read the entire book before. Once. Since then, he'd typically stuck to the second, indexed section, and the few passages from the first that he'd once thought could be relevant to his dad's disappearance. But even those passages hadn't been looked at recently—not since his father had ordered Dean to stop looking for him.

And not for nothing—their dad _did _write like freakin' Yoda.

It was the first section Dean opened the journal to then, leaning into the light of the half open curtain—spreading one arm across the coolness of the laminate table top while he hunched himself over to read the passage his quick fingers had been looking for.

He started chewing on his thumbnail without realizing it the minute his eyes hit the right page. Having found it, he tucked his thumb into his fist, settled his chin on top of it and started chewing his lip instead.

_I called Missouri. The first time in years. I don't want to take Dean with me but the suggestion that he stay behind seems to make things worse. We argued. Unusual because he argues with me so rarely. I've been hard on him. Too hard. All of which reinforces how dangerous this ghost could be to him—the way it latches on to what we don't know is even there. But if capable of latching—it'd just as easily reach him here as there. It's a hard thing to admit to myself but we'll lose more if I don't. Mike used to tell me—I hate to lose. That hasn't changed._

Dean knuckled his eye, refocused and prepared to read the passage again.

Already, parts of it took on meaning lost on him the last time he'd read it. Missouri, for one. Once again, he'd thought his dad had meant the state. The argument was something else. The reference had been irrelevant when he'd been seeking clues to his father's absence so he hadn't dwelt on it—hadn't thought about it.

Truth was it was an uncomfortable reference. Never with breath had his father admitted to being hard on him. And Dean, quite simply, just didn't want to go there. If he did, he couldn't guarantee he'd make it back. He realized his father wasn't perfect, knew he'd made some mistakes but, Dean knew all about making mistakes—having made enough in his own life—and couldn't afford to let those mistakes tip the scales in the wrong direction because, despite what he'd told Sam in Nebraska about only believing in what he knew was really going on, even _he_ had to have faith in something.

He _did_ remember arguing with his father—vaguely. Reading John Winchester's staccato sentences about it sparked a hazy recall—conjured up a memory of squaring off with his father in the kitchenette of a dingy cabin, both yelling. But that was all. He hadn't thought about that time until Sam brought it up last night.

He didn't _like_ thinking about that time. And since his dad _had_ killed that ghost, there was no point in going over ugly ground twice.

No way could this fog ghost be related.

Digging into this past was a waste of time.

Sighing, he scrubbed his thumb across his eyebrow and read the paragraph again. Better to _know_ and be prepared than be caught off guard later. Especially while Sam was in this with him.

"Anything useful?"

Dean startled, snapping the journal shut as his eyes darted out to meet Sam's—as though he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't.

Sam was sitting in his bed—had shifted upright against the headboard and was watching Dean intently.

Probably had been for a while.

Dean covered his startle by stretching, twisting his stiff back—flicking his eyes away from Sam and toward the window. "Not that I could make out," he answered offhand, looking back at his brother and standing, flexing muscles to chase away lingering jitters. "You sleep okay?" Deflection—habitual deflection. He realized he was doing it but couldn't stop himself.

It's not like Sam hadn't been there ten years ago—his little brother clearly remembered the incident well enough to have brought it up.

Dean had nothing to hide.

But Sam was already giving him the look of suspicious concern Dean wished his brother incapable of. It made him feel raw and open—_evaluated_. Like all his weaknesses were being plucked out of him and picked apart.

Dean tossed the journal back in his bag and picked up the jeans he'd discarded. "Sam?" he said, "I asked you a question."

Sam folded his arms, looking stubborn, or bored, or worse—like he knew what Dean was trying to do. Rolling his head against the headboard, his eyes stopped tracking Dean's every movement. "Yeah, I slept alright—you?" He looked back.

"I always sleep alright," Dean threw back—a reminder that _Sam_ was the sensitive one with nightmares. But he smiled to soften the comment, jerking his head toward the bathroom. "You need in before I shower?"

Sam shook his head and his expression became less suspicious and evaluating when he added aloud, "No thanks, but don't take all the hot water."

"Never do. You're the one with the long showers and delicate hair requirements."

Sam threw a pillow at him before he escaped into the bathroom and shut the door.

Leaning his back into the plaster wall, Dean closed his eyes, grateful that Sam had played along at lightening the mood for the moment. But it was play-acted easiness. A facsimile of the usual barbs they tossed each other, and they both knew it. And ultimately it was the _forced_ easiness which made all the real things happening between them so much harder.

Dean wasn't afraid to be vulnerable in front of Sam—not exactly. In fact, he could be markedly candid and open with him… but there were limits. When they'd gone back to Lawrence, he'd had no qualms telling Sam he'd sworn not to go back there. Not even trying to pretend away the difficulty.

Not until much later had he confessed to calling their father. That had been his limit because, at the time he'd called, it hadn't just been difficult, he'd been _weak_. He'd felt _little_—wanting his dad. Weak in a way he hadn't wanted Sam to see—or understand.

He hadn't wanted Sam afraid to lean on him, afraid to count on him. He'd needed to maintain the solid exterior. It was what he'd done ever since they were kids because if Sam saw Dean freak out about something, Sam could potentially freak out double. But, if Sam skinned his knee into a bloody mess and Dean could calmly tell him, "It'll be okay and I'll take care of it," Sam would be calm too.

And usually, if Dean hadn't been able to pull it together, or convince Sam things would be okay—Dad had been there to pick up the slack.

Their was no one with them to pick up the slack this time, and—ever since the heart-thing—Sam wouldn't stop looking at Dean like he'd come apart at the seams and been stitched back together with a perfidious thread Sam would never quite trust again. Which was difficult for Dean because he wanted Sam to trust it. He needed him to trust it—needed to trust it himself because in a lot of ways he still _felt_ broken, and didn't think he'd ever not.

* * *

The drive up the canyon road into Sinks was silent. Strained a little. And Sam figured it was probably his fault. The hyper attention he was giving his brother was wearing on Dean and Dean was starting to buck against it. Which meant it was backfiring on Sam because Dean was pulling away from him—no longer allowing him to pick up the slack he'd let Sam take after he'd gotten sick.

Sam got it. Dean was better. Dean didn't want to be treated like an invalid. Sam was trying his best _not _to.

He'd purposely kept himself from making an issue out of what he'd seen of his brother that morning. Though, it'd been weird, waking, watching Dean when Dean hadn't known he was being watched.

Dean always knew when he was being watched. And he'd been biting his nail, which Dean didn't really do—that was Sam's own nervous habit. Back with a vengeance after almost kicking it at college.

"Hey, we take the right up here," he directed, looking down at the directions Charlie had scrawled across an Oxbow restaurant napkin.

Dean nodded, slowed, took the turn.

Sam went back to shuffling through the information they'd grabbed that morning in the Lander library. A small Library, which was to be expected. They hadn't been able to collect much but they'd printed or made copies of everything they could find—which essentially included every disappearance in or near Sinks Canyon for the past 4 decades. Stopping there because information extending farther back was stored in the city building's basement vault.

Sam flipped through some of the papers, sliding his fingers down the margins, but he was just pretending to focus and he knew it.

His mind was on other things.

Dinner with his old Stanford buddies was one thing. Staying with them was another. He had a hell of balancing act to perform the next few days. Dean would back him up on whatever stories he came up with but that thought was only slightly comforting. He'd rarely spoken about his family to any of these guys. They were going to be curious. They were going to ask questions. He and Dean would have to keep their stories straight.

It was probably foolish to undertake hunting a ghost right under their noses—Sam was surprised Dean hadn't said as much—but he wasn't willing to take the chance of one his friends getting hurt doing something foolish when he possibly could've stopped it. And that was probably the part Dean understood as well—the reason he _hadn't_ said as much.

Sam tapped his fingers against his knee, pointing Dean into another turn. Adding, as an afterthought, "I told them you were… like a… private investigator." It sounded cheesy, saying it aloud.

Dean glanced at him, nodded.

Sam shuffled the papers a bit more. They were getting closer to the cabin. "Oh, and, I got the information about the three hikers. One—the guy—uh," Sam pulled out the paper he was looking for, "Trace Collins. He isn't in town anymore but I have his phone number. But the girl—Elly Walker—she's still in town and, the rumor is, she's under psychiatric treatment."

_Work_, Sam thought, focusing on work was good.

"Since her disappearance or was she under treatment before?"

"Just since her disappearance. The guy from the clinic I called set up an interview for us—tomorrow morning."

"Good work, Sammy—hey, is that it?" Dean whistled. "It's huge."

Sam ducked to look out the front windshield. It _was_ huge, but he'd expected that and was less surprised than Dean by what people considered 'cabins' these days. Besides, Charlie's family never did anything halfway.

They got out of the car and Sam jogged ahead, ringing the doorbell while Dean fished some of their basics out of the backseat then came up the walk to join him just as Charlie answered. "You made it!" he said, waving them in.

The entry hall opened into a room with vaulted ceilings and rustic décor—wood everything, including the steps and railings on the staircases leading up to the indoor balcony circling the floor above them.

The massive room they stepped into was also silent and empty.

"Where is everyone?" Sam asked.

"They're all downstairs in the rec room and Jack is prowling around here somewhere. Listen, you have your choice. All the bedrooms upstairs are full except one—but it has a couch that folds out into a bed. You two can share that room or one of you can stay in the empty bedroom downstairs instead… if you want a little more space."

"Ah… we'll share," Sam answered, not looking at Dean—was glad when Dean didn't comment or refute him.

They followed Charlie up one of the staircases, dropped their belongings in the room they'd be sharing, which Sam noted was larger than most motel rooms they ended up in—which he filed away as a good arguing point should Dean complain to him later—and moved down to the rec room to join the others.

When they entered, nearly all heads turned to greet them in unison and Sam felt a weird sense of nostalgia coupled with vertigo at how normal everything felt.

Kim and Donna were watching a movie off a big screen TV in the corner. They paused it to come hug him, both nodding hello to Dean.

Sara was beating Garrett in air hockey and though they didn't quit their game to greet him, they both yelled variations of, "Hey, Sam."

Sam found himself struck with a feeling of welcome he hadn't fully allowed himself the previous evening. These were his _friends_ and even if it could never last, it was nice to know they'd missed him. Nice to know he was still one of them—somehow. Or, at least, could still pretend he was.

One additional person called out, "Hey, Sam." He looked and saw Blake over near the opposite corner from the TV, settling a rack of nine-ball.

There was no feeling of foreboding—no twists in Sam's gut marking the moment as the warning harbinger of future conflict. But Sam would wonder later if some of their subsequent trouble might have just been avoided—if only Charlie hadn't had pool tables.

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996_

"Sammy, why don't you turn on the television and watch something?"

John Winchester's voice echoed distantly. He was talking from the small alcove of a kitchen cornered into their current surroundings. The metal scrapes and stirs told Dean where his father was and that he was cooking something.

John wasn't much of a cook—had difficulty even working a toaster—and though Dean didn't consider himself any sort of master chef exactly, the duties of meals had fallen to him long ago.

Like the rest of Dean's senses, his sense of smell seemed to alternately dull and sharpen. While the rest of his body awoke from numbness with prickling stings—scent seemed to slide backward and Dean couldn't even guess what John was making.

He kept his mind busy by trying to figure it out because that was better than thinking about anything else. He ached—fully and deeply—but as long as he kept his mind diverted he could pretend the ache away, outwit it until his father or Sammy rubbed a hand across his head or settled one on his chest, startlingly curbing the pulsing pain, if only for that moment.

He focused his mind on anything he could—the tones in his father's and brother's voices. Their movements. He wasn't sure he'd ever realized how much the movements behind a sound told about a person.

Since their father had come back into the room, Sammy hadn't been still—moving from a hovering position near Dean, going across the room to ripple around their father's elbows, only to turn with loud shuffling steps to come back again. All without saying much. Sammy was worried.

As for his father—he dropped things from time to time, usually when Sammy was floating near him. John Winchester was not, nor ever had been, a clumsy man. So Dean could tell his father was worried also.

Dean could also somehow tell when both their gazes drifted over to him at the same time, because their movements ceased completely, his own breathing abruptly louder in his own ears. Then one or the other would shift and the movements and sounds would start up again.

John Winchester must have reached his limit when he'd finally suggested the TV to Sammy.

Dad wanted Sam distracted.

Dean knew from experience, distracting Sam wasn't ever easy.

The twelve-year-old huff was clear in the shuffle of Sammy's feet across the scratchy carpet, in the dutiful look for the remote control—in the glare Dean could nearly hear being sent back toward their father. But finally Sam clicked the TV on—bouncing Dean's bed as he climbed back onto it.

The click of the remote was loud, shifting from channel to channel, oddly amplifying the crackling nerve endings feeding Dean's headache.

Then, the switching stopped. And Dean didn't hear _The Brady Bunch_, _Leave it to Beaver_, or _Growing Pains_. It was… _King Kong vs. Godzilla_. Sammy was watching_ King Kong vs. Godzilla_. Sammy hated that movie.

Dean loved it.

Sam stretched out next to him—backward—feet near Dean's chest, head near Dean's feet. He could tell Sammy's position because the twelve-year-old settled an arm and hand over Dean's ankle and he could feel Sammy's shoes bump his ribs when he shifted closer.

It wasn't as good as when one of them put a hand on his chest—but the pulse of the pain ebbed with the touch—so much so he would have leaned into it if he could have.

Beyond the TV there was a distant pause of sound and Dean could tell his father had stopped whatever it was he was doing to watch them.

He wondered how often their dad had done that before—_before_ when Dean hadn't been aware of it.

* * *

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 5 **

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

Charlie walked Sam and Dean around the rec room—offering them sodas from the fridge in the small kitchenette, pointing out where arching double doors led to steps spiraling up a few feet onto a low deck that, despite being built off the basement floor, reportedly led to an incredible view of the canyon—while Kim and Donna shuffled around with them nonchalantly.

Sam and Dean both took cream sodas from the fridge, and both optioned a look from the deck some other time.

"Nice set up you have here, Charlie," Dean commented, stopping their roundabout tour to look at the rows of movies lining the shelves back near the foosball table. "How long has your family had this?"

"'bout a decade now," answered Charlie, and Sam was mildly glad to notice Dean was, so far, blending nicely—digging for information in a way only Sam would pick up on. "My Dad built it. He grew up near here and is strangely into hunting—a sport the rest of us in the family don't fully comprehend."

Sam swallowed his soda wrong when Charlie said _hunting—_sputtered and coughed until Dean shuffled over and thumped him on the back a little harder than necessary—and Sam decided he should worry less about Dean fitting in and more about himself. Dean thumped him one more time, giving him a warning look when Sam straightened after bringing his windpipe under control.

"You okay?" Kim asked, large eyes overtly worried.

"Swallowed wrong," Sam mumbled hoarsely. "There a lot of hunting around here then?" he asked, voice still full of gravel, deflecting the conversation back to Charlie, purposely blanking his mind of anything supernatural when he got to the word _hunting_.

"Too much, if you ask me," answered Charlie. "There's like three taxidermy businesses on Main Street alone. Highly disturbing practice."

"No kidding," Dean agreed strongly. And Sam remembered countless conversations they'd had as children about things that went bump in the night—or things that didn't go bump in the night—and which of all those things they thought were creepiest. Well-preserved dead animals had topped Dean's list for years after he'd returned from a school trip to a natural history museum.

"Hey," Dean continued, "are hunting accidents being blamed for any of those hikers Sammy here told me have gone missing?"

Sam cringed at the nickname.

Kim shot him a semi-aversive look, clearly as fond of the name "Sammy" as he was.

Donna muffled a laugh. "_Sammy?_" she mouthed in Sam's direction while oblivious Charlie was telling Dean both the north and south offshoots of Sinks Canyon weren't zoned for hunters.

Sam blushed and shrugged, jerked his head in Dean's direction and mumbled, "Older brothers—genetically programmed to embarrass the hell out of you."

Donna laughed again and Dean finally caught on because he met Sam's eyes as though trying to figure out what it was he might have said to provoke reaction among Sam's friends. Sam shook his head at Dean with a light smile. The damage was done—and honestly he'd been more or less prepared for it.

Sam turned back to Kim and Donna. "So, uh—" he jerked his head across the room toward the TV, wanting to change the subject, "what have you two been watching?"

"_The Grudge_," Donna answered. "So far I think it's way gross."

"_The Grudge_, huh?" Dean inserted. He stepped closer to Sam and said in a low voice, "That's disturbingly appropriate."

"If you want to watch with us," said Donna, "we're not that far into it, we could start it over."

Sam would have answered—might have even answered 'yes' even though he hated such movies—but an open book on a long narrow table tucked to the wall caught his attention. "Hey, who's studying for the L-SAT?" He looked up to see Charlie and Kim point at Sara, who wandered closer with Garrett, having finished their game. Not long after, the group found themselves slipping into a conversation drowning in academia.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam watched a bored Dean wander closer to the two pool tables, and Blake, and carefully split his focus between his brother and the conversation in front of him.

Blake looked up as Dean came closer. "You play?" he asked Dean.

Dean shrugged. "A little I guess—you?"

"I was last year's champion of the Stanford Intramurals."

"Huh," Dean replied, sounding mildly impressed and non-committal.

Blake raised an eyebrow in Dean's direction. "You want to give it a shot?"

Dean grinned, and that was when Sam—half attention still on him—caught on. "Excuse me," he mumbled to his friends, cutting Kim off mid-sentence in her explanation of why she'd changed her major. He took two long strides sideways and snagged Dean's elbow, pulling him backward. "What are you doing?" he whispered in his ear.

Dean looked over his shoulder innocently. "Being invited to play pool?"

"Okay," Sam allowed slowly, "but repeat after me—I will not hustle _any _of Sam's friends."

"Come on, Sammy, relax." Dean turned toward him, patting his arm in a less than reassuring manner. "Just a little friendly game so I can get to know your buddies."

Sam rolled his eyes, still holding Dean's elbow. "No money, okay?"

Dean shook his head, looking at the pool tables longingly. "Fine," he agreed, dramatically sullen. "No money."

Cautiously, Sam let him go, watching him step up to the table where Blake was herding balls into a 9-rack, asking Dean if he might prefer playing straight. Dean shook his head like Sam knew he would, adding verbally, "9-ball's okay with me if it is with you." Dean played all kinds of pool but Sam knew he had a thing for 9-ball—7-ball in the right circumstances. He figured Dean liked the pace of it better than straight pool.

Sam also knew, since Dean wasn't hustling and no money would be involved, he'd play up to his skill right from the beginning instead of blowing the first few games for effect. And he would win, because fighting, hunting, and pool, were among the things Dean did best.

The game would almost be worth watching because Sam figured Blake was probably thinking Dean didn't have a chance. It wasn't necessarily something against Dean. Blake _always_ thought that way. Sam remembered from school, when Blake was _good_ at something, he automatically assumed it meant he was _better_ than everybody else.

Blake was also one of the most competitive people Sam had ever met—the football star in high school who'd gone the extra mile to prove he had brains also.

Sam respected and admired those traits in Blake—admired the effort he put into his education and everything else. And he held a mild hope that Dean would go a little easy on both Blake and his pride—if only for the sake of getting through the next few days smoothly while doing what they had to do.

* * *

Dean accepted the cue Blake handed him with one last backward glance at Sam.

He deferred on the break, opting out of a lag. He wasn't playing for money but Blake was clearly competitive and believed himself pretty good. Dean wanted to see Blake work the table first—see what he'd be playing against, and Blake didn't seem to mind. This was part of what Dean loved about the game, the focus and psychology it took from him, the way it pushed trivial and not so trivial concerns out of his mind.

And having a cue stick in his hand was more normal and less pretend than he'd expected to feel amongst Sam's friends. He'd take it while he could.

Blake broke, locking his hip close to the table then standing fluidly straight to see the results as the balls finished rolling. Watching the drop in the number four pocket, Blake turned confidently to Dean and said, "Looks like this one's all mine."

Dean shrugged.

"Don't worry. I'll start easy on you," Blake added, "being Sam's brother and all." But he took the push out when he bent back to the table anyway. Getting the cue ball where he wanted it, he aimed steady and sunk five in succession. The sixth stopped short of the corner. Blake's mouth thinned to a whisper above the jut of his jaw when it didn't go in, but he pushed his face back to impassive when he caught Dean's eye.

Dean moved up to the table, eying the shot, breathing slowly as he set his angle and sent it into the pocket—a variation cut-shot that nearly had the cue ball tipping with it, bouncing into the cushion just enough to look clumsy. Dean was pleased with the result. It was one he'd worked on for hustle games, wanting the opponent to believe he'd made the shot lucky—even more lucky to come out of it without scratching. He wasn't playing to hustle Blake, but slow builds in games like this were always good. Besides, it was good practice.

"Lucky shot," said Blake, but he sort of grimaced watching Dean drop the nine and re-rack the balls.

"Practice game," said Dean, handing the cue ball back to Blake. "You break again."

Blake looked like he was going to refuse, looked like he expected Dean might be up to something. "Sure," he said as he finally took the ball. It was a solid break. He worked three balls, but angled out on the four. He had no shot but he lined up anyway, tried to bank it, and missed.

Dean laced his fingers around the shaft of his pool cue, leaving the bumper balanced by his feet. "We playing fouls?"

Blake looked at him. "Yeah," he agreed. "Part of the game."

Dean gripped the cue ball, rolling it between his knuckles like a baseball, twitching an eyebrow upward.

"Ball in hand," Blake said, nodding to the felt table and trying to look unbothered.

Dean leaned down, lining up on the four, farther out than Blake probably expected. He tapped his cue forward then stepped back to watch the rolling results. He put one in the corner, but on his next shot, banked the seven in rout. It rolled up to kiss the eight, the nine stuck behind it.

"You locked the shot," Blake commented, realization edging his voice, which meant he was starting to suspect Dean had done it on purpose—was _capable_ of doing it on purpose.

"Sorry," Dean answered. He wasn't, and he was pretty sure Blake knew it.

"You compete?" Blake asked.

"I just like the game," he answered

"You a student of kinetic equations?"

"Conservation of Energy, Coefficient of Restitution, Linear Momentum, that sort of thing?" Dean clarified, smiling lightly.

Blake guarded his gaze but nodded.

"Nah," Dean dismissed. "That's my brother's kind of thing. Like I said—just like the game."

"Didn't go to college then?" Blake concluded, mask dropping slightly.

Dean shrugged.

Laughter across the room caught their attention. The group had moved closer to the couches, and though Sam appeared fully engaged in the uncomplicated and easy conversation, he looked up immediately when Dean glanced over. Dean quickly dropped his gaze back to the pool table—tried to do it without rolling his eyes because he realized Sam's awareness and annoyingly vigilant constant assessments hadn't ceased.

Blake spoke as he leaned in to line up his next shot, "So, Dean, how's Sam doing these days?"

Dean glanced back at Sam, ill prepared to discuss his brother with a stranger, even a stranger who thought he knew him. "Not bad," he answered simply.

Blake stood without taking the shot. "Traveling around with you must have helped him get over everything that… well, everything that happened."

Dean caught on to the subtle touch of sarcasm in the statement, but he didn't think Blake had expected him to. He opted out of answering that question too, deciding Blake didn't really expect a response even though he waited briefly for a reply before bending back to finally work the angle on his shot. He tapped the six, and sunk the five, then spoke again, "You know, it'd take a little rushing, but if Sam petitioned to line up another interview he could reinstate his law school application and get started this fall."

Dean felt his jaw tighten.

Blake kept talking. "And you know, maybe if he got back on track with everything he'd be able to move on a lot easier." Blake bent back to the table. Now he had to shoot the six, trapped too close to the mess by the seven. He broke the cluster, and nearly pulled the nine, sending it to bank just left of the pocket.

"Sam's taking a break from school for a while," Dean deflected, ignoring the set-up, thinking of how to line his cue without scratching.

"To travel around with you?" The sneer was easier to pick up this time. "That's a pretty long road trip."

Dean felt a prickling along his skin. He'd expected things to get awkward with Sam's buddies but he hadn't quite expected this. He drew air, forcing his thoughts to calm, making his tone civil and even—careful. "I travel for work—Sam's working with me."

"Is that what Sam wants to be doing?"

"Sam makes his own decisions," Dean answered, looking for ways to shut out this line of questioning. It wasn't untrue. Sam always made his own decisions. And Sam had made it clear—after their father's phone call ordering them to back off—that he would continue to follow whatever paths he chose to follow, orders be damned.

After their brief separation, he'd chosen _Dean_. And Dean would take it while he could—would look after Sam while he was able—do all he could for him while Sam let him. Because that's what Dean did. That's all Dean had.

He lined up his own shot, precise. He sunk the nine and won the game.

Blake scowled but didn't seem to take the loss as hard as the previous game. "I'm just saying maybe Sam needs a push to get back on track." Yet his mind seemed stuck on telling Dean exactly how much Sam should return to school.

"And I'm saying he's my brother. And he makes his own decisions."

"Well, he shouldn't wait too long. I mean—you don't really understand what he's up against." The implication that Dean wasn't Ivy League material was clear.

"I'll let him know you think so," Dean answered. It was a dismissal and he hoped Blake picked up on it because he didn't plan to discuss this anymore.

Having re-racked the balls, Dean broke. He took the whole third game, sinking the nine early, and was glad Blake didn't say anything more about his brother. He took the fourth game too, solid on every stroke, which must have started to draw attention because Sam and his friends wandered over. Or perhaps they'd wandered over because Sam's vigilance had detected something not quite right with big brother and was drawing closer to check it out.

Dean didn't look at Sam or his friends as he continued to line the shots, ignoring the impressed sounds they made when he Englished the cue ball in a particularly pretty shot that took two balls down off the spin he gave it. Not looking up either when Charlie whistled after he feathered in the five and six with the same stroke in game four.

Blake took the fifth game, and when he broke on the sixth he almost made the nine. But almost was still a miss and Dean took the rest of the table.

Toward the end of game seven, Dean finally met Sam's eyes—was grateful to find them smiley rather than smoky—and suddenly didn't feel so bad about pushing Blake into shutouts. When Dean leaned up after taking the nine he noticed Sam wryly rolling his eyes toward where Garrett and Charlie's hands were changing money. Dean shrugged innocently and Sam laughed, though it was apparent he was trying not to.

Dean relaxed, figuring he should stop where he was. He was tired anyway, and if the pinch he felt in his forehead and behind his eyes was anything to gauge by, Dean figured he should quit now before Sam noticed and started bothering him about it.

"That's it for me," he told Blake, leaning his cue back into the stand on the wall. Then, though he knew Sam would not appreciate it, he let his voice edge with sarcasm he was pretty sure Blake would pick up on and couldn't quite stop himself from saying, "Thanks for the game, shortstop."

And he hoped the implication that Blake shouldn't yet join the professionals, was clear.

* * *

Sam followed his brother upstairs two flights to their room after Dean excused himself from the basement.

Not entirely sure of Dean's mood, he didn't try to say anything to him until they were inside with the door shut and Dean was sitting on the couch with his open bag in front of him. "Shortstop?" he asked. He'd been hoping the only thing going on between Dean and Blake was pure competition until Dean flung that comment.

"Shortstops are good players," Dean answered absently, pulling the stack of library copies out of his bag.

"Shortstops are good players who don't happen to win competitions," Sam shot back, dropping himself next to Dean on the couch, slouching into it. He and Dean could go the rounds regarding the snarky comment all day, but Sam was planning to let it go. He had other things on his mind. "What'd you come up here for?"

"Thought I'd start going over the information we gathered. You didn't have to follow me—hey, did you find out when your buddies are going on their ghost hunt?"

"They're going down into the canyon tonight. Build a fire, make s'mores, that sort of thing. But they're also talking about camping out down there some night as well—like a dare or something." Sam watched Dean critically while he talked, knowing Dean was probably aware of the scrutiny but unable to help himself. A beat later he reached out to snag some of the copied pages himself, focusing on research while working his way up to asking Dean two things he wouldn't want to be asked.

"You don't have to do this with me, you know," said Dean before Sam could figure a way to word his questions aloud. "You can hang downstairs with your buddies."

"I know, and I will—later. If we're hiking this canyon tonight, I want to be prepared."

Dean's glance was suspicious but he didn't say anything to refute him.

"Speaking of," Sam added, deciding to bite the bullet, regardless of Dean's reaction, "what _did _you find in Dad's journal this morning?"

"Not much," Dean answered, heaving a sigh tinged in annoyance. "I don't think we're dealing with the same thing."

"And you're probably right but I just… get the feeling we should make sure."

"This your spidey vibe talking?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I don't know. Like I said, I just… want to make sure. What was Dad hunting back then?"

"Journal doesn't say much. You were twelve, what do you remember?"

Sam frowned, not having expected Dean to turn the question around on him. "Um, I remember the ghost was female—manifested in white—but Dad was certain it wasn't a _woman in white_. When we went to fight it—Dad created a distraction at the cabin where the bones were buried under the floor. I remember you—you hacked up the floor with an axe and I was dumping salt in when you… passed out. Uh—I think I remember, Dad dragged you out of the way, told me to stay back with you and uh… he lit the bones himself—carried you back to the rental cabin."

Dean looked pensive, as though checking Sam's recounting against his own memory.

"After that I remember you were out for like—"

"Two days," Dean finished.

"Two days?" Sam questioned, unreservedly surprised. "Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure," Dean answered. The certain way he said it leading Sam to feel like maybe Dean was holding something back. "What?" Dean challenged when he saw Sam staring.

"I don't know, man. I just remember… if it was only two days… it sure seemed a hell of a lot longer."

"It was two days," Dean reiterated and Sam tried to wrap his mind around the concept, finally allowing that two days would seem an eternity to a twelve-year-old, so maybe Dean was right.

He shook his head, unable to reconcile the thought and moved on. "So if the ghost wasn't a _woman in white_ what was she?"

"Journal doesn't say," Dean answered. "Except dad referred to it as a _latcher_."

"A latcher? Like—Bloody Mary latching to mirrors or the Hookman to his hook?"

"I don't think so," Dean answered, shuffling another page to the back of his stack.

"But if it was, Dean, that would make sense. We only burned and salted the bones—if it was latched onto something, maybe Dad didn't really kill it."

"No," Dean was shaking his head. "The entry in Dad's journal is from _before _we went up to the cabin. If he called it a latcher, and knew what it was capable of, he wouldn't have stopped at just burning the bones. Besides, I get the feeling that if he hadn't ended it, I probably wouldn't have woken up."

Sam said nothing, nodding thoughtfully as he took in what Dean told him.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Nothing, I just—agree with you. That last part anyway. I mean, I remember being kinda freaked, but Dad… he was _so_ certain you would wake up. Like it was absolute fact. He kept telling me you would—I just didn't know if I should believe it."

"Dad wouldn't have lied to you about that," Dean said—defensive.

"I know," Sam placated.

"And anyway—look, Sam, we'll keep it in mind—see if any of this stuff tells us what happened back then," Dean gestured to the papers he and Sam were reading, "if that will help with your _feeling_. But in the meantime we've got to concentrate on the south fork—that's where stuff is happening now, okay?"

Sam nodded.

"Do you have that hiker's phone number—Trace Collins? I want to try calling him."

Sam dug the phone number from his pocket, handing it to Dean, thinking the second question he had for his brother would have to wait, because he couldn't think, just then, how to tell Dean he looked tired. And he couldn't think how to ask him if he wanted to maybe take a nap without Dean calling him a control freak, a mother hen, or worse.

* * *

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 6**

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996 _

"Sammy, come eat."

Thumps and thwacks—Dean heard his father set whatever food he'd made for himself and Sammy on the table, heard scraping as his dad dragged a chair out to sit down on.

Dean felt his little brother's hand tighten on his ankle. "I'm not hungry," Sam said absently, focus diverted. The background space was filled by the cheesily animated roars of the still scrolling monster movie.

"I didn't ask if you were hungry, kiddo—I asked you to come eat."

Sam must have rolled to his side to face their father because the shoes against Dean's ribs changed angles. He could feel the heels cutting into his side—feel his little brother's slight weight as it trapped his leg. "Dean's not eating."

Even from across the room his father's sigh was audible. "I know, Sammy. We'll look after Dean, but in the meantime I don't want you to get sick too. Come and eat."

Dean wanted to tense. He'd seen similar conversations play out between his father and brother recently—and they never seemed to end well. It was like Sammy turning twelve had opened the door for a pod monster—changing his little brother from an easygoing kid to a kid who had to argue and question everything on principle. The arguments were, so far, anti-climactic because Dean had discovered his talent as mediator between them, a role he was apparently born for because he rarely fought with either one.

He wondered how this one would play out without him.

Of course, even if he was suddenly able to mediate he was unsure he'd be in a position to—the recent argument he'd had with his father bursting abruptly to the front of his memory. It was funny, because even just laying and listening and wanting a list of anything just to keep his mind occupied—he couldn't remember fully what the argument had been about.

"Yes sir," Dean heard Sam answer heavily, and had to play it back a couple times in his mind to be sure he'd heard the respectful words correctly.

Sam hadn't argued.

Dean was shocked.

Then Sammy rolled away from him and Dean's shock turned to something new because the dull pain, lying dormant for the time Sam lay with him, rushed back like a flood. Worse than before—as though the time Sammy'd spent ebbing its flow with his touch had allowed it to build in force. Nerve endings were on fire and his body felt markedly totally and completely awake, which made it all the more frustrating that he couldn't _move_ it.

In his mind he moaned, he growled, he _screamed_. But nothing came out.

"_Dad?_" Dean heard Sam's voice say, and he didn't sound young anymore—he sounded very very adult. "Did his breathing change?"

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 2006_

Sam shuffled the papers in his hands, re-angling his pen as he continued writing the list he'd started of Sinks Canyon's past missing persons.

He wrote dates in columns next to each name and put an X next to the ones who'd been found, an XA next to the ones who'd been found alive, in addition to a number indicating how many days it had taken to find them, and an XAV next to any whose disappearance seemed associated with anything violent or malevolent in general. He was creating separate lists for both the north and south forks of the canyon, looking for connections—looking for patterns he wasn't sure he'd find. It could turn out to be fruitless work, he realized, but they had little else to go on.

He looked up at Dean who was squinting and sagging in the straight-backed wooden chair next to the desk against the front wall of the room, papers scattered out in front of him. Dean had discovered he only got cell phone reception if he stood next to the balcony doors and didn't move. He'd already tried calling Trace Collins twice with no answer, and had finally sat down in defeat as he reviewed their gathered information.

Between Dean's first and second attempts at phoning, Sam had said, "Hey, if you want to lie down for a minute, I can cover this."

The very brief glance Dean shot him in response was withering. Which was the only answer Sam would get because Dean had obviously opted out of acknowledging the suggestion with any sort of verbal reply.

That was the moment Sam started thinking he really hadn't appreciated the difficult and dynamic role his father had played in their lives. Or, at least, hadn't appreciated it enough, because he could so easily picture how the current scenario might play if John Winchester were present.

His father would walk unignorably through the double doors from the hallway—_see_ Dean—and say, "Hey, champ, leave that—go lay down on the bed."

Dean would wave a hand absently, not looking up—say something obviously false like, "Nah—I'm fine," or maybe just an, "I'm not tired."

John would let a beat of silence follow and his voice would be lower and harder when he spoke again, "Did that sound like a suggestion?"

Dean _would_ look up then, casual air retreating, leaving only a glimmer of protesting body language. "No sir. Sorry sir," Dean would answer. He'd shove papers away as he stood and he'd go lie down—John Winchester watching him for any sign of defiance until he'd completely settled.

While the image didn't conjure warm happy feelings in Sam's stomach, and was full of evidence Sam himself used against his family—it was a fairly realistic rendering of how things might go if their Dad hadn't gone off chasing a demon without them. And it was unfortunately damningly indicative of how perfidious Sam's own control over his brother was and how inadequately equipped he was to take care of him if he needed it.

He stared at Dean's hunched back, finally allowing himself to blink, shake the wishful scenario from his mind, and look away.

His stomach growled. The clock on the wall told him it was already late afternoon. Coming to a decision, he dropped his pen and stood. "I'm going to go down and see if Charlie has something simple we can eat. You want a sandwich or something?"

"I'm not hungry," Dean answered.

Sam sighed, hand on the doorknob. "I'll bring you something for when you are," he said—impatient, irritated.

"Fine," Dean replied.

Sam waited a moment to see if Dean would look at him. He didn't, and Sam coupled a headshake with an eye roll when he opened one of the doors to finally leave.

* * *

It turned out Sam didn't have to go all the way to the basement to find his friend because he heard Charlie's voice as soon as he hit the middle floor—following it until he found both him and the kitchen.

"Hey," Sam greeted.

Charlie was bending over a chrome oven, sliding a pan of something out of it with an oven mitt. "Hey," he returned, standing straight, eyebrows lifted, settling what looked to be a pan of hot, store-baked lasagna on top of the stove, "—wondered where you'd got off to." Charlie looked skyward, indicating the level above them when he asked, "Is your brother okay?"

Sam slouched against the island counter, pocketing his hands, and couldn't stop another eye roll when he answered, "Yeah, he's okay. He's just… stubborn."

Charlie chuckled. "So it's genetic then—should've figured."

Sam blinked, then protested, "I'm not stubborn."

Charlie laughed outright. "Sure—which is why Jess always said it was like pulling teeth to get you to admit you were sick. Like that time you were down with the flu last year. You nearly passed out in class—took Blake, Zack, _and_ me to get you back to your apartment, and when we finally got there Jess was furious because you'd told her you were staying home."

Sam grinned innocently, and the pain of a memory involving Jessica didn't take his breath away or make him flinch. Just the same, Charlie appeared mildly concerned when he realized how casually he'd brought her up. "Sorry, man," he said. And Sam noted that it wasn't one of those false apologies people throw out to cover an awkward understanding of grief they didn't really get. It was heartfelt. Sam had always appreciated the rare characteristic in Charlie—the almost innocent sincerity.

"No—" Sam shook his head, "—it's okay. It's a good memory." He shuffled his feet, a breath of laughter escaping when he added, "She was… _really_ funny to watch when she was mad."

Charlie's head dropped back and he laughed out loud. "Boy was she."

Sam joined, fuller and deeper this time, realizing how nice it was to share the memory with one who'd been there—who was picturing the same things he was—one who _knew_, without explaining, all the little things Sam couldn't reasonably talk about anyway.

"You guys don't have to edit her out of conversations, you know," Sam said when the glee passed and the ache remained.

Charlie pulled the oven mitt off—set it next to the oven and slouched back on the counter in a stance to mirror Sam's. "I know," he answered. "Just… we haven't seen you for so long and I don't know where you are with all that. I don't want to bring up something painful for you."

"Thanks," Sam replied after a beat. "I'm doing better… I mean, I'm _alright_. I miss her, but I'm okay."

Charlie seemed to be watching him, seemed to conclude Sam was telling at least some form of truth until his face turned suddenly skeptical. "You sure? 'cause last night… your brother wasn't the only one who looked tired."

Sam shrugged, not certain how to answer, finding it difficult because he didn't want to tell Charlie a lie. "It's been a… rough month," he finally said. And it was so inadequate, Sam almost laughed out loud again. He had to bite his cheek to rein it in because he knew he'd end up sounding manic—purely wild or maniacal. Either one would have Charlie thinking he should be committed.

Charlie didn't say anything.

Then, just as suddenly, the desire to laugh insanely fled, leaving a weary hollow burning behind Sam's eyes. He dug one hand from his pocket, turned his face away to pick resolutely at the eyelashes on his left—wishing Charlie would say something to break the silence, because he was also now shakily aware that the agonizing worry for his brother hadn't left him. He was realizing how tired he was of trying to do this on his own—afraid he'd make a mistake, miss something he shouldn't. Lose Dean.

"Rough… because your brother got sick?" Charlie's careful voice told Sam he'd probably ended up sounding a maniacal anyway.

Sam nodded, dropped his hand from his eye and straightened higher against the counter in an effort to look put together.

"But he's better—right?"

"He's better," Sam agreed, ignoring the twist of doubt in his gut, grateful his voice came out without breaking. "Just trying too hard to prove it to me, I guess." Charlie might have asked more but Sam wanted to end the questioning before they got to things he couldn't answer. "Lasagna?" he asked, waving a hand at the bubbling pan.

It took Charlie a beat to catch up with him. "Yeah, we're going to take hotdogs with us into the canyon tonight but… figured we'd eat an early dinner before we got there, especially since Sara hates hotdogs. You and your brother are coming with us, right?"

"If you'll have us," Sam answered.

"Oh yeah—the girls will be thrilled. According to Donna and Sara your brother is a veritable cross between Brad Pit and James Dean. Which I wasn't supposed to overhear and of course means I'm honor bound to hate him, which unfortunately I don't."

Sam smiled. "Do me a favor and don't tell him that—it'll feed his ego."

"Keep him from batting his eyes at Donna and we have a deal," Charlie ragged. He moved to a cupboard, pulling out a stack of plastic plates and cups.

Sam moved over to help him spread them out on the counter—helped Charlie as he started filling the cups with ice. "So, what exactly are we doing in the canyon tonight?"

"Oh, you know—" Charlie started and was abruptly interrupted by Jack cutting into their conversation from the kitchen's far entryway.

"You're not serious about all that?" he said, walking closer to them.

Charlie frowned. "About all what?"

"You honestly expect to go see ghosts in the canyon? I thought last night you were just joking."

"Well, I don't think any of us think we're going to really see ghosts but—"

"Charlie—people are really disappearing down there."

Sam watched, silently.

Charlie looked confused—more curious than upset when he slowly said, "Nothing will happen to us, Jack. I've camped down there dozens of times. So have you. And the last hiker to go missing was three weeks ago. This isn't the first year a few hikers have misplaced themselves. Sounds to me like people have just been getting lost in the fog coming off the river—they've had interesting weather this year."

"It could be more than that," said Jack.

Charlie set down the cups he'd been fiddling with, giving Jack his full attention. "Okay," he said carefully, "it's not that I don't appreciate it… but I know you don't believe in ghosts so… why the sudden concern for my welfare?"

"I just think you should be careful," Jack answered. "Something's been happening and we still don't know what."

"We'll be careful," Charlie claimed, holding his hands up slightly in a sort of mock surrender. "We're barely going any farther than The Rise. We'll stick together and be fine."

"Don't drink tonight—okay?"

If anything, Charlie looked even more confused. "We're not even taking beer—no one's drinking tonight."

Jack looked like he would say more, but didn't. Face becoming impassive, he nodded politely at Sam, grabbed an apple off the table and left—Charlie watching him go with a crease between his eyebrows. "That was weird."

"What?" Sam asked.

"The third degree I just got from my brother."

"Well, he does have a point—I mean, you said yourself people have gone missing."

"I guess, but—well, _your_ brother might do the whole worried and concerned thing. My brother does not."

* * *

The second Sam was out the door Dean slumped, dropping his head onto the arms he had stretched across the desk. He was tired. And he _did_ want to rest. He was just afraid if he did, Sam would read into it way more than he should.

"_Ahrg!_" Dean grumbled aloud. None of this would be as difficult if Sam would just stop _watching_ him all the time!

He spread his arms, banged his head once—purposefully—on the desktop before sitting straight to stretch and pop his back, staring at the information he'd sorted. He was reluctantly concluding that the south fork canyon just didn't generate the rumor mill of stories that the north fork did. In fact, it seemed only because of the three recently missing hikers that there were rumors attached to it at all. Which meant whatever might have happened there to open the door to ghosts was recent, and _secret_, because public information was taking them nowhere.

Or, it might mean it was really somehow connected to the abnormalities to its north.

Dean groaned again and grudgingly started looking over the research Sam had gathered about the north fork, looking for anything that might tell him more about the haunted cabin from '96.

Besides the missing-persons and minor-events lists Sam had compiled, the only valuable information Dean discovered was from an article Sam copied from the 1966 Lander Gazette. It was titled _Elsa Prisal Strikes Again_ and referenced a local legend regarding the ghost of said woman. The article was campy and it must have been a slow news week in the tiny town of Lander because it seemed obvious that they were just trying to fill space. Apparently, a group on a field trip from the local school claimed to have seen her face watching them from the door of an abandoned cabin. And that was it.

Dean racked his brain to see if the name Elsa Prisal sounded familiar from back then. After a minute of repeating it, over and over, he decided it would sound familiar now whether she was the ghost from '96 or not.

He gave up and moved on, flipped out his phone and moved to the room's balcony doors to attempt calling Trace Collins once more. He got the man's machine again and ended the connection without leaving a message.

He tossed his phone on the bed—let himself drop back onto the couch. He had a headache building from his attempts to deny his own body's fatigue. Just for a _moment_—he decided—he'd close his eyes to see if it would go away.

* * *

_Sinks Canyon, south fork, 2006_

As it turned out—the south fork of Sinks Canyon was not a particularly scary place. Of all the ghost-infested habitats Sam had walked through, he marked this among the mildest.

From the spot where they parked, the trail arched over a bridge, then continued on, lining a high ridge along a silver, easy flowing river—creating an excellent view of the canyon at twilight. After another quarter mile the trail widened and dropped, opening into a large meadow next to where the river broadened and calmed—smoothly silk on its surface where the water below stretched to unexpected depths.

Two picnic tables and a constructed fire-pit gave the meadow an additional manicured and well-used aura that only further defied the supernatural.

Sam met Dean's eyes and shrugged. Dean was carrying a black satchel holding two salt-loaded shotguns and Dean's preferred EMF meter—which he'd packed already turned on, hoping the sound would alert them to the paranormal if it arrived.

Sam watched carefully as Dean, leaving the satchel strung over his chest, walked a slow circuit around the meadow, waiting for the bag to react. He noted Dean was looking less pinched, and Sam was grateful he'd made the decision to let him sleep.

When he'd gone upstairs to get Dean for Lasagna, he'd opened the door to see Dean stretched out on the couch with one arm flung over his eyes. Sam had paused—relieved. Relieved to see his brother succumb to at least a modicum of common sense, frowning because it was probably just indicative of how much Dean needed it. He'd lingered in the doorway, watching him, debating with himself—ultimately deciding to let need-for-sleep win out over need-for-food. Moving backward, he'd drawn the open door with him, clicking it closed quietly. Dean had woken on his own forty minutes later, just as the group was getting ready to leave.

"Anything?" Sam whispered when Dean approached him, satchel in hand.

"Nothing—but it's not quite dark yet," Dean answered. "Soon as it is I'll do another sweep… try to check out the trails north and south of us as well. You can tell your friends I went to take a leak or something."

"You're not going alone," Sam insisted, and he didn't care if Dean bristled at his demanding tone.

Dean put his bag on the ground and Sam saw him set his jaw—recognized it as a sign that Dean was about to say something _patient_. "Sam," he started.

"_Don't_, Dean."

"Hey, Sam!" Kim called. "Come help us with the hotdogs."

Sam looked behind him—turned back to see Dean still had his jaw set, eyes flickering away from Sam, over Sam's shoulder at the group crowding around one of the picnic tables. The jaw muscle flexed. Dean's mouth opened and closed. Finally, he caught Sam's shoulder, turned him back toward the others and fell into step beside him. "Let's just… get through this night and go from there, okay?"

It wasn't what Dean was going to say. But, if it kept his brother near him, Sam really didn't care.

* * *

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

**Part 7**

* * *

_Sinks Canyon, south fork, 2006_

Blake plopped the box of gram crackers on the chipped redwood picnic table with just a touch too much force. "Easy, Hercules," commented Donna, picking them up again to make room for other things, settling them on the bench instead. "No one wants broken crackers for their s'mores," she ribbed brusquely, and though he realized he was supposed to laugh at the patronizing tone in her voice, he found he couldn't—her hard wit grating on him just a little too strongly.

He ignored her—watched her shrug from the corner of his eye, sleek hair shadowing her face as she turned away from him. He rubbed a hand over his own hair as he glanced around the clearing to see what else he might help with. Most of the stuff had already been brought over, and most of the group was crowded around the picnic table he was leaning on.

Everyone except Sam.

But Sam was easy to locate. Blake looked to where Sam lingered out from the heart of the group—tracking Sam's gaze toward his brother who was weaving suspiciously around the rim of the campground, hanging at the river's edge and then the trailhead to the south before sauntering back to Sam, whose eyes hadn't left him the entire time.

Blake considered himself a student of human behavior. He'd studied psychology amply before diverting back into law and was still thinking he might pursue the duel master's degree so he could cover both interests and talents.

His experience was currently hinting that something was defiantly up with Sam and his brother. So far the relationship he'd observed seemed unhealthy at best. Sam—who could be described as occasionally taciturn but generally gregarious—had barely peeled himself from his brother's side since they'd joined them. Blake was beginning to think maybe Kim was right—maybe Dean _was _controlling. Sam seemed uneasy—slightly distracted—anytime he was outside Dean's presence.

Blake decided it was the uneasiness—the nervousness—that was bothering him. Sam had never been the sort to be truly nervous—sometimes introspective and reserved—but not nervous. He carried an innate confidence Blake saw in very few. Jessica had carried a confidence like Sam's. And her vigor and social ability had balanced Sam's initial reticence. They'd made a good match.

Blake once admitted to Jess he'd been dubious about the relationship when it started. She'd laughed—teased him about his protective streak—and eventually he'd realized she was right. The only reason he'd doubted Sam was because he'd known Jessica first—knew her better—and it was therefore in his nature to question Sam's intentions. It was his role in the group. People expected it of him.

The protectiveness was also probably a result of how he'd met Jessica in the first place.

He'd been a volunteer for _Campus Help_—a group of students and staff who made themselves available to aid the student body with unique or sensitive problems beyond the scope of the campus police. Jess had come in as a new student wanting to know if someone could meet her at the library to walk her back to her dorm in the evenings because some jerk had been shadowing her, scaring her and generally giving her a hard time.

Blake had taken the assignment.

Eventually, he'd confronted the guy. And, sure enough, when things finally came to a head the jerk backed down. Blake knew guys like that were 80 percent bravado—20 percent capable. All they really needed was someone in front of them—someone who wouldn't back down—to finally go away.

Sam's brother Dean reminded him of that guy—the type that just chuffed against Blake's nerves.

Blake watched distrustfully as Dean approached Sam—watched as they huddled close for a minute. He observed the obvious stiffness in Sam's body language—the irritation in Dean's. Blake was pretty good at reading people. It was obvious to him Dean wasn't too keen on allowing Sam to interact with the rest of them—the way he kept drawing him out and away from the group.

"Hey, Sam!" Kim's voice at his shoulder startled him from his observations but he saw Sam look over his shoulder to acknowledge her call. "Come help us with the hotdogs," she finished. Blake glanced at her, then looked back to see Sam had actually listened and was approaching the picnic table with an obdurate expression, his brother right next to him.

Blake took initiative—determined to remind Sam there were more people in his life than his brother—plucking an un-open package of cheddarwurst off the table and tossing it. Sam's reflexes were as good as ever and he plucked it out of the air with ease, ripping it open as he stepped to the table across from him.

"Nice throw," Sam smiled. Blake was relieved to see some of the glower in his expression dissipate. Jess would have hated the expressions Sam was wearing these days.

"Pure natural ability," Blake joked.

"Uh huh," chided Sara, leaning in with a revolted expression as she watched Sam push one of the links onto the wire stick Charlie slid over to him. "Where was your 'pure natural ability' when Dean was kicking your butt at pool this afternoon?"

Blake frowned as Sara giggled. Frowned further when she smiled at Sam's brother and he winked back at her.

"And by the way—that's disgusting," she added, pointing to the hotdog on a stick Sam was holding.

Blake briefly expected the conversation to turn to hotdogs rather than pool, until Garrett spoke, "Yeah—where were those natural abilities this afternoon? You lost me twenty bucks."

Blake opened his mouth to say something but Charlie beat him. "I don't know—that part worked out for me."

Blake changed his mind about what he was going to say. "You bet against me?" he asked Charlie. He made the protest sound sarcastic because he knew that's what his friends expected. In truth he was annoyed.

Charlie smiled. "Hey," he justified, slapping a hand between Sam's high shoulder blades. "I spent like _two years_ watching Mr. Skilled-and-Coordinated here shoot people down in every intramural basketball game we played—figured his kind of aim had to be genetic. You can't blame me."

Once again Blake didn't get a chance to respond. "Well I blame _you_," Garrett told him. "Seriously—I've never seen you get beat before—and it's not like Charlie _needed_ to win twenty bucks from me." If Garrett was trying to be funny, Blake decided he didn't really appreciate it. Garrett was one of those guys who just sort of stumblingly discovered he had brains, made it into Stanford, but was a little lazy in the effort department—which apparently made him lazy of tongue because he'd otherwise think about what he said before he let some of the comments he made come doling out of his mouth.

"Everyone loses sometimes."

Blake almost groaned aloud. Kim could be a good defender _but_—he wished she'd found some other phrase to use. The one she'd chosen was too cliché. It made him sound like a poor loser, like he needed to be patronized, or worse.

His skills didn't _need_ defending. He was above such pettiness, and he didn't need Kim or anyone else standing up for him. "And sometimes, people just get lucky," he said pointedly, countering Kim's comment. His eyes darted in Dean's direction.

The group around the table laughed. Even Sam's brother looked amused.

When Blake's eyes locked with Dean's, Dean simply lifted an eyebrow—smug, unyielding.

_No_, he decided, he _definitely _didn't like Sam's brother. The guy needed a serious lesson in respect and humility. And Sam—Sam had spent too much time in this jerk's company—he needed to be shown his life had other options.

Blake felt a tap on his shoulder. Garrett was handing him a wire stick and an open package of hotdogs. He took it while the smiling group around him turned their comments to other things. He let the jokes become background noise while he concentrated on spearing his hotdog, but when his eyes moved up he realized not all in the group were jovial. Donna was watching him. Her face was impassive, but scrutinizing—looking at him like she was seeing something no one else did, silently criticizing his thoughts.

And she didn't look away when he stared back.

He hated it when she looked at him that way. It was one of the reasons he'd broken up with her. She was a smart girl, handsome—if that word could be used to describe a girl—and witty, but honestly, Blake didn't know how he'd lasted as long with her as he had.

And he didn't know how Charlie could stand it.

* * *

The sun was all but gone—leaving mere traces of dark pink in the western most sweep of the blackening sky. Stars were already visible above the opening in the grove that circled them. Dean looked to them uncomfortably—tracking the evening as new dots of light appeared—needing to take his gaze away from the group he sat with.

Sam's friends had somehow both spread out and drawn closer—lounging, hunched on bench-like logs around a roaring fire probably larger than sanity or canyon advised fire safety should allow. Still, it was contained to the fire pit and Dean was grateful for it because the night had turned more cold than cool and he could feel the chill slowly penetrating, carefully creeping into him. Prickling along his skin.

Next to him on the log, Sam was bending into his jacket and hadn't protested Kim's proximity when she'd leaned delicately into him—letting their knees touch when he stuck a marshmallow loaded stick out toward the flames.

Sam was still watching him—hovering next to him. He'd followed closely when Dean had picked up his satchel to make his second sweep of the area, and was still throwing him glances, as though worried Dean might try venturing back into the dark without him—but overall had relaxed into the atmosphere of innocent s'mores and even more innocent conversation. Somehow, Dean felt himself getting dragged along with it as well.

At first, held been playing a role—taking a few potshots at Blake, which earned him cautioning looks from Sam, and then goading Sam's friends into telling him every embarrassing thing they could about Sam's college years. Because he figured that's what Sam's friends would expect. That's what Dean thought might pass for _normal_ in the not-so-real world most people lived in. Plus, he'd wanted to know.

He'd been caught off guard by the realness behind the stories. By the details. By the affection. By the laughing way Sam was pulled into the memories with everyone else. At a few points, Dean found himself laughing too, shooting Sam half-smiles when he could tell his brother was watching him, checking his reactions.

It was all so _annoyingly _normal Dean had to remind himself he was there to work a job. That Sam was there to work a job. This was the other reason he kept looking to the sky—so he wouldn't get sucked into believing that the group around the fire was all that currently existed. He needed to look away. He needed to keep his eyes adjusted to the dark, instead of the flames. He needed to be able to see what was out there when it came.

It was inevitable that a portion of the evening would turn to academics. Dean hadn't expected that to be the part to capture his attention—abate his vigilance. But it did. It did, because of the way he saw it affecting Sam. He was thrown by the way it made his little brother blush and squirm and fidget—amazed at how it made Sam avert his gaze from Dean like nothing in the past two weeks had been able to.

It had started with Sara, who was apparently working her way into law school, discussing how difficult she found it to prepare for the entry exam. "I've decided that I hate the L-SAT. Even the practice tests are killing me," she confessed.

"You'll do better than you think," Sam placated.

"Easy for you to say," Sara countered. She turned to Dean. "Sam aced it—didn't even take the prep course."

Sam grinned—a wide, absolute, complete grin Dean couldn't remember seeing on his face—_ever_. "I didn't take the prep course because I couldn't afford it," Sam recounted dryly, "but I tracked Blake down after every class and made him go over in detail everything they talked about."

"Which is how I ended up with such a good score," Blake cut in. Sam grinned at his response.

"Oh whatever, Sam," Donna spoke. "You're near genius at all that stuff—even if you hadn't had Blake to help you." Her face glowed in the firelight and she huddled closer to Charlie even as she turned to Dean, leaning near as though speaking confidentially, "I'm telling you, Dean—your brother—future U.S. Supreme Court Justice. Probably the youngest ever."

Dean nodded, finding he suddenly couldn't say anything. He swallowed hard and tried to look glad.

He felt an odd ache in his chest and his heart gave a double thump—like the outer cold had seeped into his center. He pulled his hand up to cover his breastbone in confusion because the ache suddenly seemed much more physical than mental. But, in the lull of conversation silence, it abated so quickly he wondered if it had really been there at all.

Sam was watching him, anxious eyes pinned to the hand Dean was still using to cover his heart—the hand Dean quickly dropped when he irritably realized what Sam might be thinking. Sam's jaw muscle jumped, twice—his body language ridged as he placed a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Are you okay?" he whispered, eyes broody and worried when Dean spared him the briefest glance.

"_Yes_," he hissed back.

"Alright—enough academics," Garrett projected over their huddled whisper. "We came here for ghosts! And I demand Charlie give us ghosts."

The group laughed. Dean ignored Sam to focus on Charlie.

"Nah," said Charlie when he realized he was the center of attention. "Someone else should do the story telling this time."

Donna had slid off the log and was sitting in front of Charlie—his arms wrapped around her shoulders. "No way, you're not getting out of this—time for a ghost story." She sat straighter, forcing him to release his hold.

"Fine fine," he agreed.

Garrett tossed him a flashlight. Charlie flashed it tritely in front of his face for a second, highlighting his nose and cheekbones. He lowered his voice. "What story do you want? There's the legend of the Hookman? Or I could tell the one about Bloody Mary?"

Dean nearly groaned aloud. He stopped ignoring Sam long enough for the two of them to exchange a meaningful look.

"No—those are old," balked Kim. "You said there were stories of ghosts around _here_—tell us one of those."

Dean perked up a bit, remembering he was on a job—realizing Charlie telling a local legend could actually be useful.

"Okay," Charlie conceded. He dropped the flashlight, clicked it off, leaving his face compellingly dark.

Dean realized the fire's blaze had ebbed considerably but no one seemed bothered enough to add another log.

"This story is a _true_ story about a woman," Charlie began, voice slow and serious.

Sara giggled and Garrett shushed her.

The rest of the Stanford kids had gone silent.

"A woman who went walking away from her cabin—"

Dean curbed his own impulse to laugh, letting his focus circle those surrounding the fire, intrigued by their innocent reactions to ghost stories. A pastime he would never understand.

"—and vanished into thin air."

Donna had moved back onto the log—was sitting on Charlie's right. Dean's left.

"They say she came back—"

Straight across from him, Sara and Garrett were watching with rapt attention.

"—with everything but her body—which to this day has never been found."

And there, sitting on the log between Sara and Charlie—watching him with sharp glowering eyes and a predatory smile—was a swaying elegant being Dean had never seen before.

_Damn it!_ He silently swore—reaching behind him to scramble for his shotgun while trying to keep his eyes pinned to the evocative face. Too late to be on cue, the EMF in the bag he was groping for began to crackle and whine.

"What is that?" asked Sara as she and the rest of the group looked in his direction—gallingly oblivious to the threat among them.

"_Dean!_" Sam shouted, sounding vaguely panicked.

Dean tore his eyes from the _woman_ to check his brother. He saw first the back of Sam's head—then saw where Sam was looking. Fog was pouring off the river in mass. In a few seconds it would envelop them completely. Dean swore again—out loud this time.

"Grab onto each other!" Sam ordered while clamping his hand around Dean's jacket collar, leaving Dean's right arm free to fire when ready.

Dean had the shotgun in his grip but there was nothing to aim at. The apparition had vanished. Dean saw only a slip of empty space where the ghost had been before the fog consumed them. By then it was too late for him to fire anyway—even if the apparition hadn't vanished. A rippling pain abruptly captured his body, making him feel on fire, making him feel snaps of agony from head to toe, a pain distantly reminiscent of the electrocution that caused his heart attack.

But where _that_ had ended—this kept going.

And this time there was no unconsciousness in sight.

He dropped the shotgun, toppling backward off the log, vaguely aware he'd taken Sam back with him as he did.

"_Dean_," he heard Sam call. Sam's hand was still on his collar, knuckles digging into his neck. He heard other voices too—worried scattered voices. Dean grit his teeth together and didn't answer any of them. If he opened his mouth, he wouldn't be able to do it without screaming.

"_Dean_," Sam's voice came again and this time it cracked in the middle of saying his name. "_Dean_, it _hurts_."

* * *

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

**Part 8 **

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996 _

Heavy feet moved across the floor—Dean felt a large hand settle over his chest. Instantaneously, the pain ceased—as though the touch held power all its own—like magic. _Relief._

Dean's effort-filled, sound-sapped attempts to scream died instantly and he tried to content himself with the odd sensation of comfort without trying to understand it. _Thankful_—because he couldn't remember ever feeling anything so painful before—except maybe _once_.

And it was funny that he should associate _that_ pain with _this_ pain, because that pain hadn't really been _physical_. It had pulsed through him in the same way—made him _feel _and _fear_ and _anticipate_ with the same intensity. Pain, not of the night his mother had died, but from the following night—the night he realized she wasn't coming back.

That was the first night he'd climbed into Sam's crib with him because he'd thought, somehow, it might make the pain a little less. And he could make sure, if nothing else, that Baby Sammy wasn't alone, in case he was feeling it too.

Dean was jolted abruptly from the memories by his father's other hand settling down heavy and cool on his forehead. Several long silent seconds followed as his dad checked his breathing, apparently trying to determine if there was truth behind Sammy's question. It made Dean wonder—could he control his breathing? _Change it?_

He focused his concentration on it—tried to pull more air into his lungs on purpose.

Nothing.

The next breath came, but not when Dean wanted it to.

It was a weird feeling—a powerless feeling—to not be in control of it. Fear-inducing, and interesting, to feel his chest expand and contract as though someone else was pushing the air in, and out—regulating it without consulting him.

The hand on his forehead moved away with a resulting rustle of material Dean assumed signified his father was no longer leaning over him. "What did you hear, Sammy?" John's voice questioned, and the hand on Dean's chest shifted too, lightening its weight. Dean focused on it—on the fingers resting on the material of his shirt, warm points of contact that reached his skin, precariously close to not being there at all.

"I don't know," he heard Sam answer. The kid's voice trembled a little. His little brother had followed their father over to him, his voice notably nearer than before.

"Try to remember."

"It just sounded different," said Sam. "Faster."

The hand flattened over his heart, heavy again. Dean's brain whited out with relief.

Unintelligible whispers sounded above him in his dad's voice. Counting, Dean deciphered—low toned and careful—timing the breaths Dean heaved under his hand.

"Is he okay, Dad?"

John didn't answer right away—the whispered mumbles rolling on. "He's okay," he said finally, voice distinct.

"Is he waking up? People breathe differently when they're awake," Sam informed knowledgably. Sammy seemed to know a whole lot of random facts these days.

"Not yet," Dad answered. "He's breathing alright. We'll watch him—but it'll be awhile yet before he's up." The hand eased its weight again, catching at the material of his shirt as it shifted— and lifted, about to take away its magic. "Come on. You and I need to eat."

Sammy's feet shuffled morosely, dragging on carpet and wood as he followed their dad's order—settling himself amidst a series of shuffles and scrapes between wood and linoleum, _away_ from Dean, at the kitchenette table.

John's other rough hand rubbed through Dean's hair and he was surprised to feel his dad's dry lips brush his forehead—surprised to hear his voice whisper, "You'll be okay, Dean. You'll wake up soon," very close to his ear. He wondered again if his father knew he could hear them. Regretfully, he doubted it, because even though John's voice was direct and confident, it held the same quality Sammy's had earlier, when he'd told Dean to '_wake up'_ when, in reality, he was directing the plea to the room at large, or a god unseen.

Dean didn't know if it was the voice or the kiss, but he found himself more or less ready when the magic left him—the re-flooding of pain no longer a surprise. The intensity didn't shock him as much this time—but the silent moan of his own voice cried out inside his head anyway.

And this time, if his breathing changed, no one seemed to notice.

* * *

_Sinks Canyon, south fork, 2006 _

Sam lost track of the ghost as soon as the fog covered them.

Which was about the same time the pain hit—just after the alerting groan of Dean's EMF meter, which hadn't come soon enough because the wrinkled ghost of an old man was already sitting among them, staring out at the fog pouring up from the river when the detector finally went off. The man's bitter ancient smile was the last thing Sam saw before he lost all sense of balance and fell backward off the log—aware, in some corner of his mind that Dean had fallen with him.

Reflexively, he groped at Dean's collar, realizing he'd somehow bypassed Dean's jacket and found his fist twisting in the cotton material of his brother's shirt instead.

He'd grabbed onto Kim also, but lost grip on her almost immediately—somewhere between the shock of pain and the unexpected gracelessness of his fall. Only time would tell if he'd feel guilty about that later.

But the _pain_—abrupt and intense—left him thinking only of it, and _Dean_.

"Dean?" he cried out and knew it wasn't the first time he'd done so. "_Dean_, it _hurts_." He cursed himself for sounding like a little boy—bothered that in times like this his first instinct was to yell for his big brother—expect him to come fix it all. Was that a flaw John Winchester had ingrained in their training, or was it just the way things went because Dean was older?

_He can't help you—you're all alone!_ A deep voice whispered—confusing Sam because he was pretty sure it resounded inside his head, not out of it.

"Sammy?" Dean's hushed voice brushed against him.

Sam rocked toward it, angry that all he could see in front or around him were swirls of dark and white—even though he _knew_ Dean was right next to him. Angry that "ahhgh" was all that came out of him when he tried again to reply, feeling drowned and drained from the pain pulsing through him.

Something latched onto his wrist—cold and hard and strong—working furiously to pry his hand from Dean's shirt.

"_No!_" he bit out, not sure if the word emerged coherently or not.

Immediately, whatever gripped his wrist left him. But there was no time for relief because in the same second a harder grip latched around both ankles, yanking him, folding him to the side—rough rocks and twigs and ground cutting into him, dragging him until he was stretched taunt between the hold on his ankles and the grip on his brother—feeling almost like he was the link in an electric circuit between them—energy crackling painfully up and down his body.

"_Sam?_" Dean's gruff and anguished whisper echoed over him. He felt Dean roll toward him, and though Sam knew he hadn't meant it to, the roll was enough to dislodge the hold Sam had on him. The fabric of Dean's collar slid from his fingers. The hard-cold grip on his ankles yanked and he was suddenly being rapidly dragged away.

"Dean!" he cried out, shaky panic joining with the pain. There was a buzzing whir in his head—like the sound of a vacuum turning on, getting louder, intense and building, like it wanted to make him burst.

"_Son of a_…" he heard Dean gripe, voice sounding stronger, body scrambling after him. "Shotgun!" he heard Dean warn in a low hard voice just before the boom of rock salt soared over him, and Sam didn't worry for even a second about what Dean could or couldn't see in the fog.

A shrieking hiss cut through his mind then dissipated, leaving everything abruptly quiet.

The grip pulling him was gone—as was the pain.

He rolled till he was face up, staring into the density of the fog, feeling drained and dizzy—unprepared when Dean practically tripped over him, nearly knocking his breath out as he landed heavily on top.

"Dean?" he gasped, gripping the leather of Dean's shoulders.

"Sammy?" Dean returned.

Sam barely heard the reply. He could barely see Dean's face through the dissipating fog and his rapidly darkening vision. Everything before him flashed to hazy grey as it swirled together, then narrowed to a point as unconsciousness claimed him.

* * *

When he woke again, the fog was gone.

Dean was leaning over him, pressing a heavy hand to Sam's chest, right over his heart, looking worried and way too pale.

"Dean?" he questioned stupidly, still feeling hazy, reaching an absent hand up to Dean's cold face.

Dean batted his fingers away but cocked a half-smile, blinking with relieved eyes. He kept restraining him with the hand on his chest even though Sam hadn't even tried to sit up yet. "Take it easy, Sam," he ordered. "I don't know how bad you're hurt." Dean's hands ghosted over him, taking him out of Sam's line of vision. Sam frowned at the words, shifting focus to evaluate his own body, thinking he wasn't hurt at all until Dean's practiced hands found and awoke some mysterious pain or bruise.

Finally, Dean leaned back into his vision and Sam frowned deeper because Dean had a scrape across his temple—oozing blood Sam had missed before. He reached toward it to find Dean again batting away his touch. "You're hurt," worried Sam.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Not compared to you. Hold still—follow my finger."

Sam did as ordered, blinking overtly—not because he couldn't focus on Dean's finger, but because the finger was being lit by dubious firelight.

Dean's eyebrows drew together. He reached for something and, without warning, Sam found the beam from a flashlight gracing each eye. Dean was still frowning when he finished, but his shoulders had relaxed a little.

"Do I pass, doc?" Sam griped, reaching a hand to rub his stunned pupils.

"You scared the hell out of me, Sam," Dean answered gruffly, then leaned in close, whispering, "Are you sure you're okay?"

Sam nodded. He felt a tad shaky and numb, remembering the echo of rippling pain. _Had anyone else felt it?_ "How long was I out?" he asked.

"Long enough," Dean answered, reaching to help Sam sit up.

"A good five minutes," came an additional answer. Sam looked to his left to see Blake looming near with his arms folded over his chest as though averting temptation to interfere with Dean's exam. "We should get you to a hospital."

"There isn't one in Lander," came Charlie's voice from somewhere behind him. "There's an emergency clinic, but it'll be faster to get him back to the cabin where Jack is."

"I'm fine," Sam insisted, shifting his legs, jackknifing knees in preparation to stand.

Dean moved in closer and Sam rubbed at the back of his head tiredly before reaching to grip his brother's strong arm, accepting the extra hold around his back as he was pulled upright.

His eyes darted around the camp, noting everyone's location. Kim was sitting near the river, holding her ankle, Garrett standing next to her. Donna was sitting on a log facing them, her back to the fire, Charlie standing next to her. And across from him, next to where Blake loomed, Sara sat hunched on the surface of the picnic table, legs crossed Indian style beneath her.

"What exactly happened?" Sam asked, his eyes flashing to Dean who would know he was really asking, 'What does everyone else _think _happened?'

"We're not sure," admitted Charlie, shrugging when Sam turned to face him. "Some freak warm front coming in probably caused the fog. The rest? I don't know."

"Felt like an earthquake," said Blake.

"Which is the weird thing," Charlie continued. "I mean, it's been known to happen here and there, but Wyoming's not exactly known for 'em. It sure felt like one, though."

Sam blinked at the explanation. He'd experienced an earthquake before and it hadn't felt anything like what they'd just gone through. Had he missed something—the ground shaking? He turned a confused gaze on Dean who was still holding onto him and who just sort of grimaced and shrugged in the face of Sam's silent question.

"Sure felt like an earthquake to me," Kim joined the conversation, countering his thoughts, limping toward them with Garrett's hand under her elbow. "But it was scarier—like someone was shaking me, or dragging me. I'm telling you guys… it was weird."

Sam suddenly did feel a little guilty. "I'm sorry I let go of you," he said.

She gave him a weird look. "You were out cold, Sam. I don't think you could help it. And anyway, I'm fine—just twisted my ankle some. I just need to walk it off."

Sam nodded.

"That was a good call though—holding onto each other," commented Donna, standing up. "We would have had more injuries if we hadn't."

"Either way," Sara's voice cut over all of them, "we should get out of here. That was freaky enough that I don't want to stick around to see if it happens again. I mean—did you guys hear that _boom? S_ounded like a shotgun or something." Sam flashed his eyes around, finding Dean's satchel zipped tightly closed and shoved inconspicuously against the log they'd been sitting on—no shotguns in sight. "I mean—with that sound—maybe it wasn't an earthquake at all—maybe there was a rockslide or something down canyon."

"Probably," said Dean. "You get rockslides around here?" he asked Charlie.

"Yeah—occasionally."

"Even more reason to get out of here," said Blake. He stepped closer to Sam and Dean. "Are you sure you can walk, Sam?"

Dean tightened his grip on Sam's elbow.

"I'm fine," he said again, shifting himself out and away from Dean's hold. "Let's just get back to the cabin."

The group mumbled assent—started gathering things.

Dean walked over to the log to grab the black satchel and sling it over his chest. When he leaned down for it, the firelight side lit him and Sam saw again the bloody scrape on his temple, saw again the shaky pallor of his brother's skin and he suddenly regretted extracting himself from Dean's grasp because Dean holding and helping him was possibly the only way Sam might have stayed close enough to know if Dean was okay himself.

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

"Okay—how 'bout headache? Any nausea?"

Sam slumped upright in one of Charlie's kitchen chairs, letting Charlie's brother run light fingers over his head, ask him questions, and shine lights in his eyes like Dean had already done—while Dean paced tiredly behind him, listening to every answer as though Sam might have lied to him when he'd asked the same questions himself.

Though it was late, Jack had been sitting in the front room reading when they'd returned—looking like he might have been waiting up for them—for _Charlie_, despite Charlie's insistence that his brother didn't do _worried and concerned_. He'd eyed Charlie with a look Sam had received from Dean on countless occasions—the look that said, 'I told you not to and you just had to go ahead and make me worry anyway.'

Charlie had shot Sam another confused lift of eyebrow in response. Shrugging as if to say, '_Interpret_ this for me, 'cause I don't get it.'

With Dean, the look often preceded a lecture—caring hidden by curtness.

Jack didn't say anything. He wrapped and iced Kim's ankle—sent Garrett to help her up the stairs—and sounded reasonably certain she'd be walking fairly fine by morning. He'd looked at Dean's crusty scrape and pale face when they'd come in and asked professionally if he was okay. And though Sam predicted it, it annoyed him when Dean shrugged off the attention, pointed to Sam and told the doctor his little brother had gone unconscious for at least five minutes and seemed to be favoring his left side.

When Jack finally declared Sam not in need of a trip to the emergency clinic, Sam was relieved.

"Are you sure?" Blake asked, hovering somewhere near the rest of his waiting friends.

Sam was tired, achy, and—due to that—almost told Blake to shut-up. He didn't need _anyone_ suggesting to Dean right now that he needed a hospital. All he wanted was to get this exam over with and get away from his friends, where tiring pretense could finally drop and he and Dean could figure out what'd really happened that night.

* * *

"I can't believe they thought it was a rockslide," Sam told Dean, when they were finally alone.

Dean was yanking off the couch cushions for the foldout bed. "People come up with explanations for things they don't understand," he answered. And Sam abruptly remembered walking heart-failing Dean into Roy Le Grange's meeting tent, saying words eerily similar. _When people see things they can't explain, there's controversy_. He found himself pressed upon with a weird sense of déjà vu and he had to consciously it shake away to focus back on the events at hand.

Dean's answer was true enough—_still_, he thought—_a_ _rockslide_? He scrubbed a hand across his forehead.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Dean asked, having seen him go motionless.

"Yeah," Sam answered, sitting himself on the bed, reaching down to carefully pull off his shoes.

"'Cause back in the canyon—you were in pain."

Sam looked up. Dean was watching him, gauging his reactions. "Yeah," he admitted. "It was weird, like I was about to have a seizure or something—but it stopped when you shot it."

Dean was still watching him. "When did you pass out?" he asked.

"Right after you shot it, I think."

Dean seemed to be waiting for more.

Sam obliged. "Before that it was… I mean, besides the pain, there was a voice in my head—at least, I think it was in my head—telling me… telling me that you couldn't help me and that I was alone. And then… it was like it was trying to pry my hand off of you."

"It spoke to you?" Dean clarified.

Sam nodded, looking up because something in Dean's voice caught his attention, though even later, when he tried to analyze what he'd heard, he still couldn't explain what it was. He just knew it was important because Dean was standing still, focused inward, staring down as though trying to remember something.

"Why?" Sam asked carefully, breaking into Dean's introspection. "Anything similar to our '96 experience?" In actuality Sam was starting to doubt the connection. That ghost had been female—young. This one was male, withered—old. But strong, he admitted, rubbing at the bruises around his ankles. Very strong.

He watched Dean, waiting for an answer.

Dean didn't answer, he asked another question. "Do you remember anything from when—you know—from when you were out?"

Sam blinked, looking at his brother oddly. "Dean, how could I remember anything? I was out."

"Right," Dean nodded.

"You mean dreams or something?"

Dean shook his head. "Just covering all our bases." He sat down, taking off his own shoes and shifting back on the mattress he'd unfolded from the couch, taking their note-filled papers with him, though he looked ready to fall asleep at any time.

"So what _do_ you think happened, then? And why'd it go after me?" Sam questioned.

"Who knows," Dean concluded. "Some freaky-ass ghost showed up and tried to drag you off to Never Never Land. Maybe it was attracted to your ESP."

"It's not ESP," Sam complained.

"We should still consider it," Dean answered.

Sam readied a retort but bit his lip instead. Dean was blinking owlishly in the lamplight as he shuffled to the next paper in his stack, absently lifting a hand to rub at his chest.

Swallowing, Sam decided he was sick of Dean's double standard concerning their health. "Maybe you should have let him look at you," he said tentatively.

"Who?"

"Jack," Sam returned patiently.

Dean's expression flickered toward exasperation. "It's a little scrape I can barely fit a bandaid over," he growled.

"Not that—you're pale," Sam said straight out—no longer willing to sidestep it, even if it did set Dean off.

"I'm _tired_, Sam," Dean admitted. "It's been a long day and you scared the hell out of me almost letting some freak-of-nature spirit chick drag you off—that's all."

Sam was about to counter with 'maybe that's not all' when his lethargic brain caught completely up with Dean's sentence. "Wait—did you say spirit _chick_?"

Catching Sam's tone, Dean's face became careful. "Yes," he said deliberately—slow.

Sam found himself sitting straight. "The ghost wasn't a woman, Dean. The ghost was an old man."

* * *

tbc

* * *

Last time I went heavy on Dean POV—so this time we get Sam's. Also, in real-world Lander there actually is a hospital, whose ambulance crew, incidentally, has an emergency response time like you wouldn't believe.


	9. Chapter 9

**Part 9 **

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

"Pictures," Dean muttered to himself, digging bare toes into the plush carpet flooring, feeling cold and relishing it.

He was slouched against the guest bedroom's north wall in his oldest grey t-shirt and not-so-old black sweatpants, reading by the cracked yellow light from the open bathroom door, flipping yet again through an increasingly useless pile of research—double checking names and stories against the detailed but checkered list Sam had made of the missing and the dead.

"We need _pictures_…" …_or someone to come out of the woodwork and explain in detail exactly what had happened to them that night_. And since _that_ wouldn't happen…

Dejectedly, Dean dropped the stack of papers next to his knee, then lifted his empty hands to rub dry and burning eyes. Hands that felt heavy—he'd been awake too long. Way too long. But he couldn't sleep. Something in his body or mind just wouldn't let him click over—even though he'd feigned it for Sam until the obsessively observant kid's own breathing had _finally _become slow and even.

Dean had known—by the end of their evening conversation—that Sam suspected him of withholding something. And though Dean _was _withholding—it was only because it was safer that way. For both of them. Safer for a lot of reasons he would never convince Sam of, even with proven after-the-fact results, because—no matter what—Sam would never condone what he saw as Dean's double standard. Which really _wasn't_ a double standard because it's not like Sam hadn't ever withheld things from _Dean_.

What was it his brother had said during the I-have-a-secret Bloody Mary fiasco_? You're my brother, and I'd die for you, but there are some things I need to keep to myself? _Yeah, that was it. He was fully prepared to throw the words back in Sam's face if it came to it.

Dean blinked into the shadowed room, looking up and over at the large bed. He couldn't see Sam from his position on the floor but every now and again he could hear him breathe. Deep and even. His brother's sleep seemed peaceful—and calm. It settled something in Dean's chest. Sleep might've so easily evaded Sam also.

"Are you sure no one else felt the… pain?" Sam had asked, when both of them had still been lying awake after turning out the light. The way Sam had hesitated on the word _pain_ convincing Dean that the level of Sam's pain had been every bit as immense as his own. Pain Dean could still remember with clarity. Pain that had sapped him. Pain that, though gone, had left him feeling weak and trembly.

Pain that had stopped the very moment Sam's hand had come off his collar.

"_No,_" Dean had answered, feeling absolutely no guilt for the lie. "If anyone felt something like that, they would've said something." _Anyone but me—_let Sam be content in believing he'd been the only one. That was important.

Down in the canyon that night, _Sam_ had been the target. After the fog covered everyone, the ghost might have yanked and thumped and pulled at the others but, in the end, went straight for Sam. Whether the attraction was Sam's ESP or something else, Dean didn't know and didn't care. If it happened once, it could happen again. And it had _spoken_ to Sam—tried to convince him Dean couldn't help him, tried to isolate him, separate them.

If Sam knew Dean had been in pain too—if he knew Dean's pain had stopped the second Sam's grip had dislodged…

Dean shook his head, digging the heels of his palms against his eyes. He couldn't have Sam hesitating to reach for him if in trouble. He couldn't leave Sam thinking his touch might hurt him.

If needed, he would take that secret to the grave.

Flattening his hands on the wall behind to give himself leverage, Dean pushed upright on shaky legs, toeing close to his brother with the same careful movements he'd been using all night. Sam had changed positions—rolled to his side—but his face in the dim moonlight looked peaceful. As long as Dean ignored the shadowing bruise across his cheekbone and the three tiny twig-induced scratches on his chin, he looked normal.

Not unconscious. Not in pain. Not motionless and unresponsive to calls. When Sam had passed out, he'd feared it—feared waiting days for a Sam-in-quiet-pain to consciously come back to him.

Dean curled his fists. He wanted to curse Sam for suggesting these events had _anything _to do with the cabin back in '96.

It was stupid. There was no way they could be dealing with the same ghost—ghosts?

Dean shook his head. He moved away from Sam, walked over to the window, and tried to keep his thoughts from returning to the man vs. woman conundrum. He'd racked his brain enough over that one already. It's why they needed pictures. If he or Sam could match what they'd seen with photos of the missing or the dead on Sam's research list, they'd be able to figure out who their ghosts were. Maybe figure out if and how the ghosts were connected. Maybe even figure out what the ghosts were after—why they'd gone for Sam.

They. It. Him. Her. Maybe it would help them figure out the dual apparition or at least prove whether or not one of them was crazy.

With a soft groan he shifted to the couch blindly, pulling out his dad's journal. He'd already checked it—twice. If there was something in it to support the idea of a two-in-one ghost special, he hadn't found it. He fingered the book, biting his lip, ready to move back into the glow of the bathroom light.

The foldout bed loomed invitingly in front of him. Still—Dean couldn't convince himself to lie down on it.

He _needed_ to sleep. He really couldn't go all night like this. Come morning, he'd end up looking worse than ever, and Sam would be impossible to shrug away once he saw the results.

Like he really needed to give Sam another reason to hover.

Making a choice, he dropped the journal back on top of his duffle, crept to the room's double doors, glanced back at Sam, and quietly slipped free—planning to grab a soda or something—walk, move, settle his mind.

He'd try sleeping then.

* * *

The room's exit led Dean straight out onto the circling indoor balcony overlooking the dim main room below. He touched his hand to the dark wood railing, his eyes gradually adjusting as he followed it around to the top of the nearest spiral staircase. As he got there Dean could just barely make out a shadowy figure standing below—female, swaying.

He stopped his bare feet from moving, adrenaline spiking through his limbs.

_Son of a… _Why did he keep finding himself so damn unprepared these days? He was thinking of his knife, and guns, his EMF meter and his canistered rock salt, all sitting uselessly in a bag back in a room too far to do him any good.

And while he watched, the figure below rocked, and turned, angling toward him, leading him to mutter a thousand and one apologies to his absent father because, _damn it_, he really should have known better.

* * *

Lost in sleep, Sam was dreaming—a dream more memory than not.

And because it was a _memory_, it wasn't quite a _nightmare_—even though the replay of it in his mind always left him feeling cold and afraid and haunted. Even though it kept coming to him over and over and over again and left him feeling worse each time—even though the details somehow stayed the same.

It was the memory of the moment when fear for his brother had struck him deepest—during Dean's heart-thing. It was the moment _reality_ had seeped into Sam's determined mind. The moment he realized his brother's heart was _really_ damaged and Dean… Dean could actually slip away from him and never return.

It was the same night Dean had freed himself from the hospital.

Inadvertently, Sam had taken to shadowing his brother around the motel room whenever he moved—which wasn't much and wasn't far—hands resting at Dean's ribs, supporting, ready to catch or hold if needed. Dean didn't say much about it, but he also kept his movements minimal—kept the need for Sam's help at bay.

He was being sarcastic but compliantly unmoving when Sam went out to pack their things in the car. Getting them ready to drive hell bent for Nebraska where he was sure Dean would be cured and _live _because he could imagine it no other way.

When he came back inside, Dean was no longer sitting in the chair where he'd left him. Sam's eyes quickly swept the room, fearing his brother would be collapsed somewhere behind a bed—and that's when he heard the running tap in the bathroom.

He moved to the closed door, listening to the steady spray—hearing nothing else.

After a moment, he knocked. "Dean? You okay?"

When no answer came, Sam didn't wait. He tensed, muscles tightening in his arms and neck as he readied himself to break the door down and found the moment anticlimactic when he discovered Dean hadn't locked it.

Inside, Dean was standing, leaning into the counter with his hips—hands spread knuckle-white and flat on either side of the sink, holding himself up—staring in a worrisome way into the mirror image of his own ghostly face. He was trembling and the shadows under his eyes—already horrific—had grown deeper.

"Dean?" Sam said, his own voice shaking slightly, not even sure what he was asking. There was something on Dean's face he didn't recognize, and didn't like.

Carefully—cautiously—he moved behind his older brother, placing tentative hands at his ribs to hold him up, steady him—and could immediately feel Dean's tremors cut into him—transferring from the cloth of Dean's zip-up sweatshirt straight into Sam's palms. But it wasn't _that_ that surprised him. It was the way Dean abruptly tilted backward, slumping into Sam the moment his hands were in place—Dean's head dropping backward onto Sam's shoulder, rolling, shocking Sam when his brother's icy-cold forehead rested against the base of his jaw.

Sam hadn't been prepared to take quite so much of Dean's weight. He stumbled a little but compensated, wrapping his arms under Dean's, gripping across his brother's chest but irrationally afraid to allow his hands near Dean's heart—afraid he could do damage—afraid if he constricted it in some way…

Sam shuddered on an indrawn breath and looked out into the mirror at his own worried gaze. He blinked. His eyes were watery but he didn't want to cry. That would be like—_acceptance_. The moment stilled and he felt for a moment as if he were looking across a divide—like he was seeing a stranger in his own face.

His eyes moved from his reflection to Dean's, wishing they hadn't because the first thing he noticed was the stark white pallor his brother's skin _never_ was, brought out more by the way his head was tilted onto Sam's shoulder—white throat drawn out—elongated. Sam could see Dean swallow—could see the jump of his pulse below his stretched jaw line, and was becoming progressively conscious of the too-slow echo of Dean's heart—thudding weakly against Sam's chest in appallingly contrast to the strong beat of his own.

Dean's eyes were closed.

Sam didn't like them closed.

Still cautious of constriction, he held his brother tighter, tilted his own head sideways to feel more of Dean's cool skin against his neck and jaw—watching them both in the mirror—trying to ignore the tiny voice in his head that told him he'd better take a good _long _look at his brother, that he'd better savor the moment… because it might… it might…

Dean was breathing slowly. "Just dizzy," he sighed into Sam's ear, letting Sam take even more of him. "Just dizzy."

Sam felt his throat constrict. "Dean?" he said—wavering—and he didn't care that his voice came out terrified.

Dean opened his eyes.

Haunted—dreamlike—they're gazes locked across the mirror, looking into the parts of each other that weren't real, or even really there. It was as though they weren't really standing together—as though something already held them separate across that divide and the weight of Dean in his arms was just an illusion. The look between them lingered—silent, long and staring.

"It'll pass," Dean whispered, still seeing him—still staring at Sam through his reflection.

It was fleeting, but Sam caught the brief sardonic expression on Dean's face just after saying it.

It was the moment his hope faltered.

"_It'll pass_."

For just that moment, Sam knew, neither one of them believed it.

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996 _

Between the ages of eight and twelve Dean used to get migraines. And when they hit—nothing helped. Lights, sounds—even people talking to him in whispers would amplify the pain. Ultimately he'd shun people—Sam, his dad—shut himself alone in the bathroom, block all the lights, roll himself into a ball, and try to blank his mind of everything he could.

Sometimes he found himself rocking his foot or body to a benign rhythm that somehow kept the pain at bay. And to keep the rhythm, he'd count, repetitively—one, two, three, four—one, two, three, four—one, two, three, four.

Or sometimes he'd repeat the words of a song. And usually it was just one song—the song he remembered his mother singing to him and to Baby Sammy at bedtime. The words were simple—the rhythm more so. Though, Dean wouldn't so much sing it to himself as he would repeat the words in cadence. _Little-bird, little-bird, in the cinn-a-mon tree, little-bird, little-bird, do you sing for me?_

He was doing that now—keeping the pain controlled with words—only mildly aggravated he couldn't tick his foot to the rhyme. Aggravated more when his father and brother's voices drifted too close to block out, though he kept trying—

_Do you bring me word-of one I know? Little-bird, little-bird, I love her so. Little-bird, little-bird, I have to know. Little-bird, little-bird._

"But when we're in a motel I always share with Dean!" Sammy's voice invaded.

_Beneath this tree—_

"I know, Sammy. Just not tonight, okay kiddo? You'll get your own bed. You need a good sleep and I want Dean close to me in case he needs something."

_This cinnamon tree—_

"I can tell you if he needs something."

_We learned to love—_

"Not tonight, Sammy," John's voice came out harder.

_We learned to cry—_

Dean wondered how long they'd been arguing, wondered if he might have actually phased himself out for some of it. He knew he hadn't been sleeping_—didn't think he could sleep—_but the sharpness in his father's voice told him Sammy had already been told once or twice why he couldn't sleep with Dean.

_For here we met—_

"But, Dad—"

_And here we kissed—_

"Sammy—_bed_!"

_And here one cold and moonless night we said goodbye—_

"Yes sir." Sammy's voice was barely a mumble—but harsh—so Dean caught it.

He might have felt bad for Sammy—might have been touched that Sammy didn't want to sleep without him—but the pain was building and he suddenly couldn't get his mind past it. Worse—he was stuck with the song. He couldn't remember the second verse. _Little-bird, little-bird? It started the same as the first— didn't it?_

Dean heard a rustle of sheets, heard his father tuck them around his little brother even though Sam was twelve and their Dad hadn't done that for him in a long time.

There were more sounds he didn't understand and couldn't place.

He tried to ignore them. Tried to get back to the song. He was trying to recall his mother's voice—couldn't—and it frustrated him. _What was the stupid second verse?_

Unexpectedly, touch returned to him—a heavy hand on one shoulder—another on his chest. The absence of pain was so differential and sudden he gasped—heard himself gasp—and knew his brain would spend half the night trying to do it again.

The hands on him stilled. "Dean?" his father whispered, voice drifting down to him from somewhere above.

_Dad_, Dean thought. _Dad_.

His father dragged a knuckle down his breastbone—_hard_—like a medic checking for a victim's pain response. For the zillionth time, Dean wished he could.

His father sighed—loud, defeated.

The hands on him shifted, and this time Dean truly prepared himself to panic. It was silly, but he couldn't go back to the pain—couldn't deal with it—not without the second verse. But the hands didn't leave him. To Dean's wonder they slid around and under him, shifting him upright. The bed sunk, shifted, and Dean was pulled back, settled—_safe_—against his father's chest.

_No pain_, Dean reveled. _No pain_.

A strong arm wrapped around him, hand locked over his heart while another hand rubbed at his head, smoothing through his hair. His father hugged him all the time—he _did_—when he came back from hunts, birthdays, a quick arm across his shoulders here or there—casually affectionate, but... Dean hadn't received this type of physical affection from John Winchester in a long long time.

And, to further his astonishment, John Winchester started to hum, hum in the same steady rhythm his hand was using to stroke over Dean's head.

After a moment the hums became the mutterings of words.

A moment after that, Dean realized his dad was on the second verse.

_Little bird, little bird,  
Oh have pity on me  
Bring her back to me now  
'Neath the cinnamon tree,  
I have waited too long  
Without a song.  
Little bird, little bird,  
Please fly, please go  
little bird, little bird,  
And tell her so.  
Little bird, little bird._

* * *

tbc

* * *

The song is not mine and is from _The Man of La Mancha - _the musical version of the story of Don Quixote, which I felt was fitting in context.


	10. Chapter 10

**Part 10**

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

As Dean saw it, he had two options—run for the room and weapons, or stand his ground and wait to see what the figure at the bottom of the stairs had in store for him. Screaming out for his brother was a third option, but it didn't occur to him.

Straining eyes into the dark, he stood his ground. He didn't smell ozone, he didn't smell sulfur, and even if he had he might have still chosen what he did—retreat being a difficult concept for him even in the worst of times. Not that he wasn't ever willing to do it—the _run and hide_ back-up plan had worked for him before and eventually he'd draw on it again. But it'd take more than this unknown entity at the bottom of the steps to provoke it.

He stepped closer to the railing, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet. And whether his brain accepted it or not, his brother's name built itself into the back of his throat.

Below him, the face angled, moonlight catching the fine features. It looked like—

"Charlie? Is that you?"

—_Sara_?

Dean relaxed faintly, settled his hand on the banister and took a step down. Still wary, because the hair on the back of his neck was tingling upright, itching. "Sara?" he questioned aloud.

"Dean?" The hushed-harsh whisper of his name drifted up the stairs sharply.

"Yeah," he returned, moving farther down, sweeping his tired eyes into the shadows through the vastness of the large room. He didn't have Sam's 'weird vibes sometimes' but he had his own feelings—whether gut or experience he didn't know and didn't care. Even when the empty room testified to nothing but calm silence he kept his muscles tense, maintaining a vigilant stance all the way down to the base of the staircase where he could see, more or less, that the swaying female he'd seen from the top really was Sam's quiet friend.

"Didn't mean to startle you," he said to her, voice as hushed and harsh as hers had been—rough, with lack of sleep.

Close up, he could easily make out the mousy color of her ponytailed hair. Could see she was barefoot like he was—dressed in a t-shirt and some form of printed pajama-pant. From the moonlight through the arching sun-optimized windows above the front door, he could even see the goose pimples rising across her arms.

But he couldn't really see her eyes. For some reason, that bothered him.

She was still swaying. That part hadn't been his imagination. And she held a beer in one hand—which surprised him. Not that the average person wasn't allowed to grab a cold one in the middle of the night but, so far, Sam's friends had shown themselves to be comparatively tame and pretty much exactly what Dean expected—_so not the party crowd_. These were the students that bonded over corn chips and Ho Hos during weekend study sessions, regularly met together at the same table in the school library, played Saturday morning basketball while quizzing each other for Monday's exam, and were more likely to use a mug of warm milk—not cold beer—to cure insomnia.

"What are you doing up?" asked Sara, lifting the glass bottle to her lips, tilting liquid into her throat.

Dean could see her swallow. "What are you?" he countered—habit. Never answer a question you don't want to if you don't have to—especially when it's too tiring to come up with a lie—and too easy to deflect.

"Can't sleep," she admitted, turning her back to him as she sat on the bottom step, settling the bottle next to her foot.

"Why not?" he questioned, seating himself guardedly at her side.

The shadows in the room deepened. Dean looked up through the windows to see clouds moving over the moon. A faint wash of cool air ran across his arms, ruffling the loose hang of his t-shirt and he checked his head slowly, glancing left, right, and behind him—back up the stairs—because it bothered him when he couldn't tell where a breeze was coming from.

Feeling a little paranoid, he turned back to Sara. The residual moon glow caught her eye-whites. She was watching him.

"You'll laugh," she said softly. It took him a second to remember he'd asked her a question.

"How do you know I'll laugh?" he shrugged. "You don't even know me."

"Ah—" she hissed, "but I know your brother. And if you're anything like him, I'm betting you're pretty well based in reality."

Dean had two thoughts simultaneously. _You don't really know my brother_—and—_I'm nothing like Sam_. He felt his stomach tighten and his throat constrict. He hated that her statement brought his thoughts to the one wearisome thing he'd actually been able to avoid thinking about through his wakefulness—namely, the wonder of what Stanford-Sam had been like. The wonder of whether Stanford-Sam might have really been better off without his family.

It bothered him that there were years of Sam's he couldn't touch and might never fully comprehend. Just as there were vast parts of himself Sam wouldn't ever totally grasp. The irony and hypocrisy of this being that Dean felt he was supposed to hold some of himself apart. Sam wasn't.

He'd listened to the stories Sam's friends had shared that evening with a touch of disbelief. He'd felt Sam wanting him to listen, wanting him to know—but it'd left him with questions. It'd left him wanting the picture to be completed, wanting to know more about how Sam had been and what he'd been _like_—those years away. The years he'd somehow pretended away the supernatural, his family's obsession, even his family itself. The amazing aspect of each story becoming evidence that somehow during those years, the supernatural had left Sam alone as well—as if _it _had pretended _him_ away—returning to Sam only when Dean had.

The whole idea of normal—all those intimate details Sam's friends had revealed—it was like a fairytale to Dean. More out there than anything he could imagine, because he was sure, if he'd ever tried for normal the way Sam had, the supernatural would have followed him. No question. It didn't matter if the belief was irrational. It was something Dean _knew_—intrinsically.

He was Dean Winchester.

No matter how far he ran—if he were ever inclined to—the supernatural would find him. It always did—sought out his worst fears and forced him repeatedly to confront them. Like it _knew_ him. Intimately. Better than anything or anyone.

All this—Sam's Stanford life, his friends, this girl sitting next to him who talked with Sam about the grossness of hotdogs and studying for the LSAT—_this_ was unnatural. _This_ was the fairytale. So no matter what Sara said, Sam wasn't all that well based in reality.

Which brought a third thought to Dean's mind—_that depends on what you call reality_. This thought was safe enough to verbalize and after another half second, he did.

Sara's eye-whites flashed in response, holding stationary long enough for Dean to see she was evaluating his statement. "If you laugh," she tempered, "I get to say I told you so."

"Okay," he answered—easy.

"Tonight—in the canyon?" She played with the glass bottle, rolling it in her hands, thunking it inadvertently against the corner of the wood step. "Before all the fog came in… I thought I saw… something."

Dean's eyebrows twitched. The rest of him stilled. "What did you see?"

Her shoulders whispered upward in a shrug. "I'm not certain." She fidgeted with apparent indecision, then, turning more fully to him, continued, "Fog can play tricks on you."

Though eyes were mostly shadow to him, and white with wide, Dean could tell she was waiting for confirmation. He dropped his chin downward in vague agreement, staying silent. _Yes, fog can play tricks on you… sometimes those tricks are deliberate, _he thought.

"There was a sound, before the fog… like a radio turning on or… white noise?"

The EMF meter—Dean knew—she was referring to the EMF.

"And then Sam told everyone to hang onto each other. And the fog came. But just before it covered us I could swear there was this… _person_… this _face_… right behind you."

Dean blinked, groaning internally. Standing _behind_ them? There'd been something standing _behind_ them? _Could this damn ghost scenario get any more complicated?_ He ran a hand over his short hair, openly frustrated, reviewing his memory. He remembered, before the fog covered them, the ghost—whether man or woman—had disappeared from the log. It was entirely possible that it had reappeared behind them—behind him or Sam, ready to pull them apart, take Sam into the haze. He cursed himself for not sensing it.

Reining in his reaction he looked back at Sara. "Male or female?" he asked, trying to make the question casual enough for Sara not to start viewing him with the fear of insanity she felt was already in her.

She didn't answer right away.

The room was brightening, blue in hue, clouds splitting around the moon, releasing it from cover.

Dean could see Sara better now and was instantly disconcerted to see she was smiling at him. "Sara?" he questioned warily.

Her head tilted to the side, features continuing to sharpen in the moonlight. The smile stayed. "I don't know," she whispered, "if it was a man or a woman… but it looked lonely and—" Sara's eyes caught his, and though it might have just been a trick of the moonlight, they glowed darkly as her voice deepened and taunted, "it was really mad at you."

Dean tightened his hands on the lip of the stair below him, ready to push himself up, thinking of a dozen fight or flight scenarios, and his _run and hide_ back-up plan. And he was wondering if he and Sam shouldn't have been brushing up on their exorcism and ghost expulsion rituals. Then again maybe this wasn't possession. Maybe this was just the way Stanford kids reacted to seeing ghosts.

Maybe they were all just this… creepy.

But his thoughts on the subject went no further. Unexpectedly, his attention was drawn urgently upward by an abrupt and aching shout splitting the air above him, around him—echoing, pierced and anguished.

"_Sam_," he recognized.

* * *

Because Sam's subconscious was Sam's subconscious, it couldn't leave his dream—his nightmare—at mere memory. Even if that memory was bad enough all on its own, his subconscious just had to change it, twist it, and give it the worst ending possible. And though Sam, even in the throws of his dream, could recognize where myth and reality diverged, he couldn't stop the terror the new twists sparked within him. He couldn't stop how real they felt.

So when he found himself sitting in the audience of Roy Le Grange's tent watching Dean being healed, he knew he was dreaming—remembered distinctly how it had gone before—and knew with certainty it wouldn't end like it had in real life.

"Sammy, what are you doing here?"

Sam peeled his eyes away from Dean on stage with Roy's hand at the side of his head to see his father sitting in the seat next to him, in the chair that Dean once occupied. He knew he wasn't real but—"Dad?"

"I asked you a question, son."

Sam stared and sound blinked out behind him—as though someone had pressed the mute button on everything but them, leaving Sam capable of hearing only _Dad_. "Yes, sir," he answered, feeling himself straighten. "I called you. I told you—Dean got sick. They said he would die and I… I brought him here to make him better."

John Winchester looked at him, smiled, then gave him the proud look Sam secretly felt was usually Dean's. "Good job, son—good thinking."

On stage Dean had dropped to his knees, at which point, in reality, Sam had started to panic. In this version he felt himself start to relax—felt his dad's arm settle strongly around his shoulders. "There's just one problem," said John, close to his ear, before squeezing his shoulder and standing, walking over to where Dean was now collapsing.

Wary, heart sinking, Sam followed.

John looked down at unconscious-Dean, then back to Sam, shaking his head. "He won't wake up now."

"What?" The tent, Roy, the crowd, they'd all faded to background—faded to black. Sam's world was himself, his father, and Dean at their feet. "Dad—I don't understand."

John set a hand on Sam's shoulder. "It's what comes after that you should worry about—what's in here," he said, tapping Sam's breastbone. "I think," said John, nudging Dean with his foot, "he's dead now."

Sam looked down at Dean, stunned by the casual pronouncement.

He dropped to grab Dean's sweatshirt, wanting to scream _'say something_' like he had in reality, but something—something cold—latched onto his ankles and yanked, just as the words were trying to emerge. Viciously, Dean was wrenched in the other direction. Sam felt the material of Dean's sweatshirt sliding from his fists. "Dad?" he tried.

"Don't lose him now, son."

"Dad?"

Sam couldn't hold on. The grip of Dean in his hands vanished as they were ripped apart, leaving Sam feeling torn, fighting, and watching powerlessly as Dean was dragged away.

When he cast desperate eyes up, his father too disappeared.

Sam was left in darkness.

He opened his mouth, and with all his might—_screamed_.

* * *

Nightmares were nothing new for Sam. _Waking_ from nightmares was nothing new for Sam. Everything about it too familiar—the feeling of disorientation, the readjusting seconds it took to remember where he was and what was actually real. The nearly always vibrant recollection of his dream's every detail lingering heavy in every limb.

Screaming out loud from a nightmare, however, _was_ something new for Sam. He wouldn't have even realized he'd done it if it weren't for the raw feeling in his throat—the vibration of it lingering in his teeth, the echo of his own voice sounding in his memory, in the hollow of his ears. Once that piece fell into place the rest of what was happening started to make sense—helped him understand why he was tangled in bedcovers squinting into the bright at Blake who was standing next to the light switch on the wall with Garrett and Kim hunched in the door frame behind him—all three wearing expressions of the stunned-awake.

Sam groaned shakily, feeling every bit of what made this situation so not good. Yet the embarrassment he felt warred with panic when he realized Dean's face wasn't one of the concerned onlookers. Though he realized he was being fed by panic from his dream, he wanted Dean with him—urgently. And the only thing that kept him from crying out his brother's name was the basic instinct most kids develop by age eight which tells them they can no longer shout out for Mommy or Daddy or big brother in front of their friends without getting seriously made fun of later.

"Sam? You okay?" Blake took a step toward him.

Sam struggled upright, discovering his disorientation hadn't totally left him.

By the door, Garrett and Kim were suddenly shoved aside, and Dean appeared, breathing heavily. Sam caught his gaze and they stepped into one of those moments they would never talk about later—silently communicating—taking simultaneous breaths in relief of the other's apparent safety.

When the moment passed, Dean shook his head at Sam—rueful—then stepped into action, ushering the concerned onlookers out by the sheer weight of being _Dean_. Sam didn't know what he said to them, would maybe worry about it later, but when Dean closed the door, restoring their privacy, he was simply immensely glad everyone else was just _gone_.

"Thanks," he said, sliding his elbows out from under him to flop tiredly back to the mattress, trying to blank his mind of… everything. He closed his eyes and didn't even open them when the weight of Dean sunk the bed at his hip.

"Was it important?" Dean asked, after a minute—cautious—like he feared Sam could be sending them back to Lawrence come morning.

"No," he answered.

Silence, then, "You don't usually scream like that."

Sam swallowed. "I know—just a nightmare," he said. But he was remembering the way Dean had whispered _'just dizzy'_ in his ear, both in his dream and in reality, and he shuddered at the _casual_ of his own voice.

"_Sam_," —warning.

"It was about _you_, okay?" he admitted, knowing nothing would get Dean to back off quicker, simultaneously angry with himself for capitalizing on the trait in Dean he found most frustrating—angry with himself for exploiting it, augmenting it—angry with himself for being _grateful_ for it.

But Dean didn't say anything. The weight of him on the bed froze rather than shifted. Sam realized he'd have to say more this time before Dean would drop it—could hear Dean's voice in his head echoing from the time his dream really had sent them back to Kansas. _Well tough—I'm not going anywhere until you do._

"Look," he said to Dean's silence, "it was nothing significant. Most of it was just—bad memories."

"About me? Impossible," Dean said easily, voice soft.

The exasperation and humor built in Sam even though he didn't want to let it. He was amazed again at how well Dean could do this to him, _for_ him—turn terror into nothing. The corner of his mouth turned up involuntarily and he finally opened his eyes—caught Dean's serious look, and let the emotion built into his chest come out in a huff vaguely similar to laughter.

Without having to move much he smacked the pillow not under his head into Dean's sudden smirk.

"Hey," Dean grabbed the pillow away, holding it in front of him as he shifted position, turning away from Sam's hip, sliding his back up against the headboard, "I just tell it like it is—you're the smart one, I'm just pretty."

Sam found himself sliding up, sitting against the headboard along with him, shifting over unconsciously to make more room for his brother, reflecting on the fact that Dean's snarky clichéd comment couldn't be further from the truth. Dean didn't always tell it like it was, he was often the smart one, and right then he wasn't looking all that pretty. Sam bit his tongue against commenting on the last part, because even if Dean did look awful, he didn't want to fight.

Regardless, Sam's mood turned serious with the realization and Dean's mood seemed to follow suit.

"So—dreams about me that left you screaming. Shapeshifter?" Dean questioned softly, and Sam realized there was safety in sitting side by side, in not looking into each other's eyes.

"No," he denied.

"But you _screamed_," Dean insisted.

"You were dying," Sam shrugged, shoulder brushing Dean's, reality all to recent for it to feel like a dream.

"And?"

Sam chewed the inner part of his cheek—a growing bad habit. "And I couldn't stop it." He hoped Dean would leave it at that, because he didn't know how to explain the rest of it, and they'd probably just end up fighting about Dad.

Luckily, Dean dropped it. "Can you get back to sleep?" he asked.

"Can you?" Sam shot back, sliding down in the sheets. There were other things he could have asked, like, 'have you even slept yet?' or 'where were you when I woke the house screaming?' but he let those stay silent—the things he couldn't explain making him more sympathetic to things Dean probably thought _he_ couldn't explain. But he watched as Dean got up from the bed, as he flicked off the light switch on the wall and returned them to semi-darkness.

He noticed then that the bathroom light was on but didn't comment on it, and he didn't comment when Dean pulled the EMF meter from one of their bags and set it on the desk near the door already turned on.

He watched Dean until Dean lay down—till he settled, till it seemed he was at least trying to sleep, before he closed his own eyes to try it again himself.

* * *

tbc


	11. Chapter 11

**Part 11**

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 2006_

Dean woke up before Sam did, despite hours less sleep, and went straight to work on what had kept him up most of the night.

This time, Trace Collins answered after the very first ring and Dean held his body as motionless as he could to keep the cell phone from losing the connection.

The morning was cold but he'd slipped onto the balcony outside their room anyway—with bare feet—hoping he'd get the same reception near the doors he'd got from within, which he did. And when Trace answered he spoke to the formerly missing hiker in low tones so as not to wake Sam on the other side of them.

While Dean recognized that it wasn't as early in Philadelphia as it was in Wyoming, Trace's booming voice grated against the hour and Dean's own lack of sleep. Pushing past it, he introduced himself as a follow up investigator with Search and Rescue—needing to once again clarify the details of Trace's unusual experience.

The information he dug up wasn't much, though Trace was more than willing to talk about it. The man was chatter—originally from a tiny town on the Texas-Louisiana border.

An insurance salesman.

Dean found himself struggling to keep the conversation on track. He was unsurprised when Trace told him he'd been looking into the possible explanation of alien abduction. "What's the last thing you remember?" questioned Dean, trying to reel the man back, resisting the urge to shuffle his now freezing feet for fear of losing reception.

"Well," Trace drawled, "Pete and Ricky had gotten off down the track a ways. I remember I was a bit upset at them for shooting ahead because I'm not much of a hiker these days, and it was getting on dark. I had a flashlight with me but Pete's the one that knows the area. Now, he wasn't leaving me behind to be mean—I imagine he might've just wanted a little space after our tussle."

"You two had a fight?"

"Didn't come to blows or nothin', but yeah—I'd given him some feedback on the ideas he put out for our company presentation and he didn't really appreciate it… oh, but like I said, don't go thinking he left me behind on purpose, he couldn't have known the fog would come in like it did."

"Right," said Dean. "The fog." He sighed—they'd covered fog already. "Is there anything else you can remember that would help us out? Did you hear anything or see anything… unusual?" He tried to make the question sound casual, subtle, but he was getting impatient—and cold.

"Well now," drawled Trace. "I asked this before, after they found me and told me I'd been missing. See, earlier on the trail I'd passed an elderly gentleman, and I wondered if they'd found _him._ I was worried, you know, 'cause if the fog could turn me around so much and ring my bell like it did, there was no telling what it could do to an old coot like that. They told me the gentleman must have been okay 'cause no one else'd been reported missing."

Dean thought about that. "Did you speak to him?"

"Well now, I said something like 'howdy do' or 'nice evening innit.' Truth is I don't rightly recall what I said but he was a bit of a sourpuss anyway. Grumpy critter didn't say nothin' nor so much as nod his head. Hey, he didn't come up missing did he?"

"Ah—no," Dean answered, processing. "We're just trying to get all the information we can so other hikers can be safe."

"Well, I tell you what, one of the first things those little aliens look for is people in secluded areas—don't want to draw attention to themselves and what they're doing and—"

"Right," said Dean. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Collins."

"Oh, of course," came the response, apparently un-offended by Dean's abruptness. "Anytime."

"Take care," Dean finished quickly, hanging up before Trace could take the conversation off again.

* * *

Back inside, Dean collected clean clothes, showered and shaved, dressed—content that Sam still slept.

He walked softly from the bedroom, pausing to pluck the EMF meter off the desk, check the batteries, and turn it off. He'd seen the curiosity in Sam's eyes when he'd placed it out the night before—was glad when Sam hadn't questioned it, because Dean really hadn't thought it was the best time for the 'Sam, I think maybe your friend Sara is possessed' conversation.

He'd taken the EMF—after Sam was back to sleep again—crept around the indoor balcony and down both extending hallways with the meter in his hands, carefully pausing outside each door, checking for electronic response, because he didn't know which one Sara was staying in. At each door the meter had stayed silent. Dean had finally returned to the room where Sam slept, warily accepting that any supernatural lingerings were done for the night.

In the yellow glow of morning, most of his suspicions seemed unfounded.

It didn't mean they weren't real. Dean was used to the safe sensation daylight brought—knew well how light could mask the dangers that would be there as soon it was dark again. He shook his head, clearing it of his evening analysis, and softly listened to the house after stepping out of the room. He found himself met by a morning telling him that most of the house inhabitants were still asleep.

He hesitated, but ultimately decided to move forward, descending the stairs in search of food—admittedly hungry—which was a nice feeling because his appetite had been conspicuously absent since Nebraska—since the whole heart-thing had started, actually, and if he couldn't sleep, at least he could eat and that would be one less thing for Sam to bother him about. He hoped someone would be in the kitchen—Charlie or Jack—so he wouldn't feel like a thief if he went pawing through the refrigerator.

He was met again by Sara—sitting alone on a cushioned stool at the wide counter behind the kitchen's island. Her arms were crossed on the counter, head resting on top of them. She lifted it and looked toward him when she picked up on his presence in the doorway. Meeting him with haggard eyes, she gave him an embarrassed smile. "Hey," she greeted, peering at the clock on the wall, "you're up early."

"So are you," he answered, realizing this conversation was starting too much like the one they'd had last night, but he shook off the feeling because he could tell—whatever he'd imagined in Sara _then_, it wasn't there now. And he was still sleep deprived enough to think maybe he really had just imagined it.

"I've always been an early riser—even when I don't sleep very much," she explained. "Drove Donna crazy when we roomed together."

He made a sound in his throat—non-committal, evaluating.

Her face became embarrassed again. "Hey, thanks for listening to me last night. I think I was… kind of out of it."

"I was up," he returned casually.

In different circumstances he might have used this opportunity to hit on her, if only because it could make Sam uncomfortable. But Dean was—weary—couldn't seem to find in him the casual flirt. Plus, if he read the vibes right Sara was digging a little on Garrett. Of course, any other time, that might have just made it extra worth his while. If _Blake_ had shown any interest in Sara, Dean would have done it for sure.

Then again there was the whole 'was she possessed last night or not' turn off.

"Yeah—guess we both were. I don't usually have trouble sleeping," she hedged.

Spying an orange on top of the counter nestled in with other fruit, Dean moved forward, figuring it would be safe enough to take without asking. He leaned into the counter with his hip while he started to peel it and said, "We all have nights like that." It was trite, and probably untrue, but sounded good—sounded expected.

Sara nodded, propping her head back in her hands—looking maybe a touch hungover. "There's bread and a toaster behind that cupboard." She pointed tiredly. "And cereal in that pantry if you want something more—Charlie won't mind."

He hesitated, popped an orange slice into his mouth, gave an expression of thanks, and stepped to where she'd indicated, swinging back a wood door to reveal the covered bread and toaster. "Want some?" he asked.

She nodded.

They waited in silence for the bread to heat.

"You know the funny thing?" Sara said after a second.

Dean looked back at her.

"I remember talking to you—but I don't remember going to bed. Like I just… woke up there."

Dean frowned slightly, realizing the statement further confirmed his suspicions, wishing they would start getting more answers instead of more questions. He was thinking about the interview Sam set up with Elly Walker, and was hoping she'd be more help than Trace Collins had been. If nothing else, maybe she would tell them she'd passed a sour looking elderly gentleman as well. And that could be something.

Maybe he could get Charlie—or someone—to finish telling him that ghost story he'd started, and any other local legend. Maybe he could see if Charlie recognized the name Elsa Prisal.

And he'd see if anyone could point him in the direction of some actual _pictures_. Check out some obituaries. Whatever.

He was also thinking about what his dad's journal said about the ghost in '96 being a latcher—was thinking it had to mean more than the normal ghostly attachments to things—was thinking that whether this ghost was connected to that one or not, maybe something in the area gave it the same ability. Maybe it had found a way to latch to Sara—if that's what latching could refer to—to follow them to the house. Or maybe something else had drawn it after them.

Or maybe it wasn't there with them at all and Sara had just been creepily tipsy.

_Damn it._ One way or another, Dean planned to find answers. He didn't plan to be picky about them. He planned to end this.

The toast popped, pulling him from his thoughts. Sara slinked over to help him butter, and if she was perturbed by his wandering thoughts and lack of conversation, she didn't show it.

Their solitude was interrupted just as Dean took his first bite.

"There're eggs in the fridge," said Jack, wearing a tie, pulling a bowl from a cupboard followed by a box of cereal. "Or pancake mix somewhere—feel free to explore and help yourselves to anything." Jack was soft-spoken but casual, voice carrying without effort.

Dean held his toast up in acknowledgment.

"Are you going somewhere?" asked Sara. Polite conversation, Dean realized. Sara probably didn't know Jack any better than he did.

"I volunteer a few hours at the clinic in town—headed there now. Oh, Dean—how's your brother?"

For a minute Dean thought Jack was referring to the nightmare then realized he was probably talking about Sam being knocked out in the canyon. "Still sleeping," Dean shrugged. The bruise on his little brother's cheekbone had looked worse in the grey light of morning, but Dean doubted Jack could do anything more about that.

"Yeah, how is Sam?" Blake repeated, entering the kitchen the same way Dean had, followed by a tired looking Donna—both still dressed in sleepwear.

Dean found himself unwilling to give the same easy answer to Blake that he'd given to Jack. There was something in him—maybe something in Blake—that made Dean want to tell the guy to just _back off_.

"No more nightmares?" Blake pressed.

"Sam had a nightmare?" asked Sara.

Dean reined in his annoyance at Blake to look at her. She'd been sitting with him when Sam screamed. She had to have heard it. Yet now, there was genuine confusion on her face.

"He woke up screaming bloody murder around 2:30 this morning," explained Donna bluntly, taking a seat next to Sara with an apologetic shrug in Dean's direction.

Sam would love this, thought Dean, shrugging back.

"What was it about?" asked Sara. She didn't look at Dean when she asked it, but the others did.

If _any_ of them thought he'd be detailing Sam's subconscious for them…

"Does he get nightmares a lot?" asked Blake when Dean didn't answer.

Crumpling his napkin, swallowing his last piece of toast, Dean glanced for the garbage.

Leaning against the cupboards, eating his cereal, unobtrusively watching the conversation, Jack pointed Dean to the doors under the sink. And it was Jack who spoke next though he didn't acknowledge Blake's question either—"It's not uncommon to have nightmares or disrupted sleep following a knock to the head. Was he coherent when he woke up afterward?"

Dean tossed the napkin, closed the door on the garbage, and stood upright, grateful for Jack's clinical intrusion. Keeping his back to the group he met the doctor's eyes with an answering nod.

"Then I'm sure he's fine," Jack replied, speaking only to Dean, moving closer to set his bowl in the sink. He dropped his tone lower as he neared and added, "He should probably take it easy today. If he gets sick or seems disoriented—anything out of the ordinary—give me a call. Charlie knows how to reach me."

"Thanks," Dean agreed.

Jack smiled and left.

The others in the kitchen had fallen to silence.

Just as Dean was about to follow Jack's lead, Blake spoke again, "Are the nightmares about Jess?"

"Blake, leave it alone," said Donna. "I'm sure Sam wouldn't want us talking about this with him not here."

"It's just that nightmares could mean a lot of different things," Blake persisted. "Posttraumatic stress, acute stress, sleep anxiety, adjustment anxiety—I'm not losing you with any of this, am I?" he shot at Dean.

Dean's face was granite as he turned to face Blake fully. "Not yet—you might need to try a little harder."

Sara and Donna watched with closed mouths—Donna with a glare at Blake's oblivious face.

"I'm just saying Sam witnessed something pretty traumatic."

_You don't know the half of it._ "Sam's fine."

"Is he? You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it, seeing how Sam's told us so much about you. Or maybe you can explain to me why—if he knew he wanted to be a lawyer from the moment I met him and loved school like no one else I know—he's suddenly content with an endless road trip."

"_Blake,_" snapped Donna, somewhere in the background. The sound of her voice pulling Dean back.

He'd almost hit him—Blake. Almost.

And because he didn't usually let people get under his skin so easily—despite all Sam's teasing about impulsivity—he recognized how his exhaustion was fraying his own nerves. "Look," he said carefully, pulling back the sarcasm but leaving the condescension. "I told you before. Sam's fine. He makes his own decisions. And as fun and enlightening as I find you, I don't plan to review his reasoning with you. If you're that upset he didn't consult you, take it up with him."

* * *

Dressed, hair still wet, and without his shoes or his brother, Sam headed in a downward direction, wanting food.

He found Dean coming up the stairs as he was going down them. His brother looked terrible. Sam had to bite his lip against saying anything. As tired as they both were it'd be like picking a fight. Besides, just then, Dean had too much ammunition to use against Sam in return—too much material to deflect the conversation out and away from Sam's valid position of worry.

"Where you going?" Sam still asked, stopping him with a hand to his chest, catching the remains of the storm cloud on Dean's face.

"Upstairs," Dean answered. Sam hated it when Dean resorted to the obvious. It was one of Dean's most telling habits but one Sam always found difficult to negotiate. He was suddenly remembering some of their most failed past conversations:

_Hey, Dean, where you going?_

—_Out. _

_Where's out?_

—_Not in. _

_Thank you, oh informative one_.

He switched tracks. Dean was showered and dressed. "Did you eat?"

"Yes."

"What did you—?"

"I had toast, okay? Now I'm going upstairs to get some of our junk ready for the day because I'd like to have some answers to our little ghost problem by nightfall. Is this little inquisition over?"

Sam took his hand off Dean's chest but kept it lifted, raised his other to join it, stepping back in a motion of surrender. But if Dean understood Sam's unspoken _'touchy much?_' he hid it well, pushing past Sam—up the stairs before he could blink.

Dejectedly, Sam decided it wouldn't be a good idea to follow him just then, and his plan to guilt Dean into going back downstairs with him so he wouldn't have to face his friends and his post screaming-nightmare embarrassment alone, flew out the window—right on the tail of a jet going mach twelve.

Wearing forced nonchalance, he followed the echoing voices to the kitchen, watchfully lingering in the doorway—encountering a group subdued to silence the second he entered. The faces that turned to meet his were sympathetic but uneasy with concern.

He was running opening lines through his head when Charlie's scratchy baritone sounded from behind, "There he is," he said in a voice that was almost jovial—bleary, not totally awake—but casual, and amazingly unforced.

Charlie's hand clapped him on the back as he came to stand next to him, looking through slit eyes at the same faces Sam was. "I knew it," he said suddenly, yanking his elbow, turning Sam to face him, waving his other hand in the direction of the rest. "You're getting all the sympathy in the whole dang house. Females loving that tortured brooding look. Uh huh—but I'm onto you now, Winchester, so just remember, that one's mine." He pointed to Donna, shuffling toward her in fuzzy slippers, wearing a ratty blue approximation of a bathrobe over his sweats.

Still slightly embarrassed, Sam laughed, realizing, with Charlie's entrance, the tension had broken and the atmosphere relaxed.

"I'm _yours_ huh?" Donna scowled, countering Charlie's lack of politically correct, but she shifted out of her seat and smiled as he shuffled closer, pecking him lightly as he blearily sat. "Don't worry," she sighed, "coffee's almost done." Charlie wasn't and never had been a morning person.

"Hey, slim, quit blocking the doorway and let me in. I need food in the worst way."

Sam turned sideways to avoid Garrett's elbow as he intentionally bumped into Sam while shuffling past.

"I don't know, Gar, if you can't get by me, maybe you've picked up a few pounds."

Garrett pulled out cereal, a few bowls, and took a stool next to Sara before he flexed his right arm. "All muscle, man," he grinned. It was probably true. Garrett was and always would be part weightlifter jock.

Finding it safe, Sam moved in to sit as well, nodding affirmatively when Donna held up a mug and the coffee pot in his direction. He dug into a bowl of Cocoa Krispies, and said yes when someone asked him if he wanted toast. Kim eventually limped in to join them and easy banter reigned until he was on his second cup of coffee and some of the earlier arrivals filtered out to shower and change, leaving him with Charlie—who evaluated him through lowered lids—Kim, and Blake.

"Pretty wild dream you had last night."

They'd settled into silence a full minute before Blake said it and Sam honestly couldn't say he was surprised. Most of the time, they'd all thought Blake should have gone into psychology instead of law. He'd minored in it and taken extra classes in case he decided to pursue it as a master's. And last year, he'd helped professor Shores with a research project involving the evaluation of family relationships.

Sam had found some of it pretty fascinating, though not always useful.

When Blake and drawn a chart for the rest of them, explaining the difference between families who were enmeshed verses families who were disengaged, Sam had looked at the scale, the definitions, and decided his family was both. When Blake grimaced and told Sam that wasn't really possible, Sam filed it away as evidence to show how truly screwed up his family was. And decided psychology didn't really have all the answers.

When Blake had talked about alternative family dynamics and the phenomena of parentified siblings, his thoughts had gone to Dean and he'd decided maybe psychology wasn't so far off base after all.

"Guess it was," Sam shrugged at Blake, aware that Charlie and Kim were listening and trying to be unobtrusive about it.

"Was it about Jess?" Blake asked carefully.

Sam shook his head. "Nope, just a random nightmare—sorry to wake everyone up."

"I think Jack slept through it—but he was in the basement," Charlie supplied.

Sam shot him a dirty look. Charlie innocently grinned.

"Nobody cares about you waking them up," said Blake, bringing them back to focus. "We're your friends. We're just worried."

"I'm fine," Sam sighed. Feeling the need to move, he stood, dropping his mug and bowl in the sink before going back for Charlie's.

"Hey, I still need that," Charlie groused, pulling the mug back toward him.

"Donna told me to cut you off at five."

Charlie let go of the mug.

"You know, Sam, if you _are_ having nightmares about Jess—maybe you should consider changing what you're doing a little. It could help. You know, get back to working on some of the stuff you were doing before," Blake persevered.

"Like going back to school?" Sam said wryly, facing his friend.

Blake smiled a little at being caught in his segue. "I'm not just harping on it. I really think it could help. I think you've given yourself too much time to dwell on just—_her_. I mean, we all miss her, but—"

"It's not just Jess, Blake. I appreciate the help—and the concern—but I'm not going back to school yet."

"Because of your brother?"

"Because of a lot of things." The look he gave Blake was determined—finalizing.

And Blake seemed to read it appropriately because he didn't say anything more.

* * *

tbc


	12. Chapter 12

**Part 12**

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996 _

Dean had no way of knowing what time it was. Only knew his father had long since fallen asleep behind him—probably propped uncomfortably against the headboard and pillows in a way his neck would regret by morning.

But Dean was grateful.

One of his father's careful hands remained resting heavy at Dean's elbow, and the other—what Dean presumed was the other, rested in the space between his ribs and his other arm. After he had given up trying to control or change his own breathing he'd turned his focus completely to his Dad, content to count the heavy breaths in the chest he was settled against, using them to quell the continual baseline of panic, childishly comforted by the continuous even rhythm—comforted—even though the pain was long since gone.

Yet the absence of pain was false comfort.

Morning would come. His father would move. His father would shift away from him, drawn by duties to himself and Sam and for all Dean knew the pain would come flooding back the moment contact was lost—maybe twice as bad for having been kept away from him.

Maybe it was there now—lurking.

Waiting.

A shuddering rustle broke into his morose thoughts—thoughts instantly abandoned as Dean stretched out his hearing, concentrating, trying to discover where the sound had come from. _What was it? Why hadn't it woken his dad?_

He could feel a tension—trembling—like waves in the air lapping over his skin.

_Dad?_

The hum of the room's generator sounded in the background, reaching him, but cutting out and around whatever had caught his attention. Whatever it was, it was near them.

Without warning it moved closer. Physical. Vibrating.

_Dad?_

Unaware, his father's steady breathing trundled on at his back.

Whatever it was shuffled closer again and that's when it clicked—_Sammy._ His twelve-year-old brother's massive need for oxygen backlighting the motion he'd detected, hidden at first under the steady breathing of their father—a breathing rhythm Sammy somehow both matched and echoed.

Dean trained his ears to his own breathing, wondering if it was in the same synchronization of his dad and brother.

It almost certainly shouldn't have been important but he was disturbed to find it wasn't—he was a half beat off and his own breaths seemed lighter, shallower, than those of his family. Out of step. Out of sync. It bothered him. He made one last attempt to control it and mentally ached when he couldn't.

Sammy's hand ghosted over his arm, tickling the hairs before gripping his elbow. _Sammy?_ His brother's hand was cold—dry—and trembling.

"_I had a nightmare, Dean_," Sam whispered.

Nightmares weren't foreign to his little brother, but rare enough to garner attention. He'd ceased coming to Dean with such complaints around age nine or ten but when they were on the road—sleeping in hotel rooms or rented hunting cabins like this one—when they resorted to sharing a bed, Sammy would occasionally wake with one and Dean would notice. At which point Sam would roll, shifting into Dean who would instinctively throw an arm over him. Sammy rarely confessed the nightmare and Dean rarely asked. Most times, Sammy tried to blame any of his resultant trembling on being cold, even when he wasn't—even when he _clearly_ wasn't.

Powerless, Dean listened for Sam's heavy huff—it came—frustration or fear from Dean's non-response.

"_Sammy?_" his Dad's groggy voice vibrated into him—a gruff, slow-deep whisper. "_Something wrong, son_?"

"_No sir_."

"_Trouble sleeping_?"

Dean might have imagined it but there was compassion in John's words—apology. It reminded Dean of the way John spoke to him those rare times he seemed to feel he'd been too hard on Dean—pushed on him too much. A tone that came out after days absent on a hunt, on mom's birthday, on Sam's, and a few other times Dean never cared to talk about. A canny tone—careful.

"_Yes sir_," Sam confessed, hand tightening and loosening on Dean's elbow.

"_Want to stay here for a minute_?"

Sam didn't answer verbally. Dean felt the scramble as his brother circled to his other side, climbing to join them. Dean reflected—they hadn't both crawled into bed with their father since Sammy was seven. He felt his father shift to accommodate him, moving Dean—jostling him fractionally.

They settled in silence.

The generator's hum stopped, clicked, then clicked again before rumbling on.

John Winchester's hand absently traced the outer edge of Dean's ear. Then there was the smoother, softer sound of breaths falling in together. Dean felt _safe_ and comfortable. So he shouldn't have, but he wondered and worried, and couldn't seem to let it stop bothering him that _his_ breathing remained half a beat off.

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

Sam left the kitchen as its remaining inhabitants began talking of plans for the day. He needed to go upstairs and find his shoes—find Dean. Talk over their own plans. Make sure his brother was okay. His nightmare lingered. And bad mood or not, he felt he'd already given his brother more than enough alone time.

_Or too much, _Sam realized, foot frozen on the first step. His gaze flashed outside through the melded glass panes around the front door, glimpsing through them the warped streak of the Impala—and the shadowy figure leaning near it. He felt his muscles start to knot and his breathing quicken—felt his face growing dark. _If that idiot thinks he's going anywhere without me…_

Changing course he headed straight for the door, so focused on Dean he didn't see Kim had come up behind him. He tripped over her, fumbled—caught both himself and her just before they ended up on the floor.

"_Sam!_" she exclaimed, holding his shoulders to balance herself.

"Oh, Kim. I'm sorry," he apologized quickly. "I didn't see you." His glance went back out to Dean.

"Is something wrong?" she questioned, following the general direction of his gaze.

"No," he fumbled, "yes—I mean, sorry—I've got to go talk to my brother." He held her still as he extracted himself, holding her until he was certain she wouldn't fall without his support.

He was at the door when she spoke again. "It's a little cold out there—is this urgent enough to go out without your shoes?"

He knew he was glowering and forced himself to soften his look when he glanced back at her. "You don't know my brother."

* * *

Kim was right about the cold. When Sam stepped off the porch, feet hitting cement, he felt it—cold through his socks. It wasn't enough to make him change course but shocked him enough to focus it a little, to get his feelings under control.

Having a clearer picture of Dean without distorting glass in the way, he paused to evaluate.

The Impala was parked down the driveway, away from the door. The trunk was open. Dean was hunched over the hood peering over what looked like a map, steady breeze ruffling the slightly longer front of his hair as he stood in profile to Sam. He looked… he looked ready to leave. Sam clenched his jaw, biting on his cheek, and watched as Dean unconsciously pressed a hand to his chest—rubbing.

That was the last straw. Sam moved forward. He no longer cared if his brother bucked at his concern—no longer cared that bringing it up would start a fight.

The fight was inevitable now.

And it wasn't one Sam intended to lose.

Determined, he angled over, setting his face to stone. "Going somewhere?" he bit evenly, stopping just short of the headlight, becoming the obstacle Dean would have to bypass to get to the driver's seat. He folded his arms over his chest, not exactly going for intimidating _but_—

Dean glanced at him, dropped his hand away from his breastbone, absently, like he didn't realize he'd been doing it. "Not yet," he answered. "Just looking over a few things—checking for patterns." He indicated the map briefly. "Figured a sweep for cold spots would be a good idea, if I can fit it in."

Sam glanced at the map Dean must've taken from their room at the Lodge. "You weren't, by chance, planning on going without me, were you?"

Dean straightened, looking back at Sam through lowered eyebrows, clearly not as dense to Sam's warning tone as his aloof answer might have suggested. "I was coming in to talk to you," Dean stated. "But about that—I think you should stay here today—rest. It's just interviews and stuff. I can fly solo."

Sam shook his head tightly, eyes rolling upward, _not_ grinding his teeth when he stuck his jaw out a fraction, holding in the roar. "I'm fine—I don't need to rest."

"Yeah, well—Doctor Jack said your nightmare might have been a side affect from getting hit on the head—said you should take it easy today."

"I feel fine. I didn't get hit that hard."

"The black and blue mark on your face says differently, kiddo."

Sam felt himself retreating—getting defensive. No no_ no!_ Dean would _not_ do this. Regrouping, he unfolded his arms, stepped forward, and pointed. "Have you _looked_ in a mirror lately? Because of the two of us, _you're_ the one looking a little rough around the edges."

"I'm not the one who was out cold for five minutes last night." Dean turned away, tugging at the map on the car's hood, starting to fold it.

Sam shook his head again—felt his nerves fraying away from their less than stable form of already raw and frustrated. He was about to open his mouth—to _tell_ Dean how it was going to be. Demand. Order. He'd done it before, done it with success. But he recognized the way Dean avoided his gaze while he folded the map, recognized both the stubbornness and subterfuge it alluded to. Dean was digging in, holding things back, fully prepared to duck and dodge. Figuratively or literally didn't matter to Sam. He didn't want Dean doing either.

He bit his lip on his outburst, shuffled forward, pushed out with his hand to connect with Dean's shoulder, softly knocking Dean around to face him, which Dean did—looking at Sam like he was crazy. "Why do you do that?" Sam asked.

Dean stepped out of Sam's reach, scowling. "Do what?"

"Act like I'm the only one who should be worried about."

His brother's face turned guarded and Sam felt he'd chosen the right track. A full six seconds passed before Dean answered. "I never said you couldn't worry."

Sam's eyebrows rose until they disappeared under his hair. "But you _act_ like it," he reiterated. "When I ask if you're alright—you blow me off, or growl, or make some stupid joke. You pretend everything's fine when I _know_ it's not."

"Maybe I blow you off or growl or make stupid jokes because it's the only way to get you off my back when you're dogging my every step and blowing every little thing I do out of proportion." The angry admission was striking, coming from Dean. Sam wasn't surprised when his brother turned away from him afterward, shadowing his face to regain control.

And like most honest statements from big brother, it left Sam a little confused, irritated—desperate to either catch up or make Dean catch up with him. "Blowing things out of proportion?" _Was Dean serious?_ "Was I blowing things out of proportion back in the hospital where they told me you were going to die and you were making stupid comments about daytime TV, the car, or—_my favorite_—me leaving town without you."

"Don't forget burial or cremation," Dean bit, turning back to him, poker face in place.

_Nice_, Sam thought, but beyond a brief grimace, didn't acknowledge the comment. Dean was baiting him. Sam lowered his voice and continued, "—making stupid comments like all of it was _nothing_—like it meant _nothing_. Like you dying—"

Dean turned in profile again, looking away, waving his hand at Sam like he wanted him to stop. "Alright, I get it," he growled, turning full face back to him, but stepping farther away at the same time.

Sam followed. "Do you?"

"_Yes!_" he hissed. "But, _Sam_, I'm not sick anymore! And you keep looking at me like—"

"I _know!_" It was Sam's turn to cut in, heart pounding because the argument was now touching things he didn't _really_ want to verbalize. Because saying them out loud was like making them real. Dean was irritated, aggravated by Sam's exaggerated attention to the details of his health. But couldn't he just see—

Before him, Dean dropped his hands. "Then why can't you just—"

"I _don't _know. I just can't shake the feeling that something's still wrong." He was echoing Dean unintentionally—echoing the way Dean had finally convinced him there was more to Roy Le Grange's healing powers than met the eye. Partly, Sam felt Dean owed him reciprocation.

"Like a feeling or a _feeling_?" Dean said, looking at him hard.

And that was just it—Sam didn't know. He shrugged, wanted to have something more to say—something convincing. Something Dean would take seriously. But he had nothing—a nightmare, the lingering fears from Dean's near death and a ghost experience ten years past.

"Okay," Dean moved forward, an opening in his voice, like he wasn't discounting Sam just yet, "the feeling that something's _still_ wrong... or—"

"I _don't_ know." Sam took a breath, realizing he should try to pull back his anger because Dean was at least trying to listen.

"'Cause my heart's _fine,_ Sam," Dean's voice was yielding—almost gentle. "I can tell the difference. I mean—_trust me_ here. No shortness of breath. No chest tightness. No numb tingling in my fingers and toes."

Sam watched as Dean held his hands up, wiggling his fingers—listening for the truth and _listening_ because Dean hadn't ever discussed what it had all been like. Sam had studied and read and wondered, but nothing he'd come up with could complete the picture. And it wasn't something he could ask.

Dean had been cold, he knew—driving to Nebraska—his brother had turned up the heat more than once when he'd thought Sam wasn't paying attention. Sam had pretended not to notice.

And now, Sam wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe all his fears were just… _fears_. But standing before him, Dean looked frail, pale—_still_. Like he might never look any better. Dean had been weary—unusually weary—when they'd left Nebraska. He'd had a right to be, Sam had thought then, since—in Dean's own words—they'd just had a hell of a week. But Sam had hoped the weary shadow would have left Dean by now. He'd hoped it would have stopped haunting them.

Instead it'd grown longer. Like shadows set against the sun in late afternoon. Sam just didn't know what was feeding it.

Was it something following from _there_ or something here? Natural or supernatural? Maybe the process of coming back to life took as much out of you as almost dying? Or maybe Dean had really just come down with something, liked they'd both pretended to believe before? The result of too much stress. Too long hours. A walk in the rain and too little rest.

Dean was looking at him. He seemed to be waiting for him to say something.

Sam found himself at a loss. Shoving hands in his pockets, he met Dean's eyes unsteadily.

His brother had pity on him. Moving forward, he lowered his voice even more, "Look, Sam, what do you want from me here? I trust you, little brother, but I'm not just going to go lie in bed all day because of your feeling."

"I'm not saying you have to."

"Then what?"

"Just—stay _close_—okay?" _Don't leave me behind. Don't go off alone. Don't let anything happen to you. Be fine._ Sam felt silly saying it, saying anything, because though they were talking about _Dean_—it came out reversed. Sam sounding more like a kid asking for a nightlight. Sam asking big brother to stay in the room with him because he was scared of the boogeyman. Sam sounding like he had all those years ago as a child when he'd woken up scared and slid into bed with Dean just to feel the comforting way his brother threw his arm casually over him.

Even worse, Dean's eyes had softened humoringly, destroying Sam's credibility, making his _feeling_ seem all the more a childish fear.

Sam looked away, like he had in the hospital, biting tears.

Dean stepped closer and squeezed Sam's shoulder. "Okay," he agreed.

It wasn't the greatest agreement but for the time being, it would suffice. Sam would have to be satisfied.

* * *

Part of Kim told her she shouldn't. But she was startled by the abrupt way Sam stalked out to his brother, like he was ready for a fight, showing emotions she hadn't witnessed from him before. Ever. _What could cause Sam to bolt outside with nothing warmer on his feet than a thin pair of socks?_ And what had he meant when he'd said she didn't know his brother? Sam had always been easygoing. She'd never seen him fight with anyone. So when she limped to the top of the stairs and realized the sweeping windows above the door gave her a perfect bird's eye view of both Winchesters, she couldn't help stopping to watch their exchange.

Guiltily, she wished she could hear it too.

Sam alternated between gesturing with spread hands and standing completely still.

His brother's gestures were curt, and he alternated between stepping into Sam and stepping away from him.

Overall it was the evolution of what she witness that bothered her. From the evidence of his body language, Sam had gone out bold and determined but by the end of the confrontation she was observing a Sam that seemed much more reserved, folded in on himself, hands stuffed in his pockets, avoidant—incongruous with all things Sam.

And the way he'd gone outside—she'd almost thought he and his brother would be coming to blows.

Lost in her evaluation she blinked when the door opened below, breaking her reverie. She'd missed Sam coming back toward the house. "I'll be right back down," she heard him call through the open door—then watched his brother lean with his arms folded against the side of their car, apparently waiting for him.

Her room was just behind her so she slunk backward to open the door, hoping to look like she'd been lingering _there_ instead of leaning on the banister.

Sam spotted her the moment he crested the stairs.

"Sam," she greeted again, working to sound casual and maybe a little surprised. "You coming with us today?" The group was hiking up to see a collection of old American Indian ruins Charlie knew about. She wanted Sam to come with them, hang out with them, make things just a bit like they used to be.

He stopped in front of her at the top of the stairs, tapping his hand on the banister, glancing out the windows at his brother—from the same view she'd used—looking slightly apprehensive. He turned back to face her. "Uh—no. I'd love to but—my brother's got to get some stuff done for work. We're going to head into town—better phone reception and all that. We'll see you tonight though."

She wanted to ask why, if it was his _brother's_ work, his _brother_ couldn't do it alone, but she held back. It probably wasn't the most appropriate time. And she was a little taken aback by what seemed to be a 180 in Sam's attitude. Is this possibly what he and Dean had been fighting about? Seriously, couldn't the guy let Sam have at least _some_ time with his friends? "Yeah, okay," she acknowledged, wishing she could say more—wishing she could ask some of the things that were worrying her.

Sam smiled at her—the easy sweet smile she so remembered—and she weakened, immensely glad she didn't blush as easily as she once had.

"Well, I uh—gotta go." He pointed to the room he and Dean were in.

She nodded.

He tapped the banister with his hand once more and went. And she didn't even have time to get her door closed before he breezed back by, carrying his jacket and shoes without having paused to put them on.

She watched with a small frown as he descended the stairs four at a time. This time nearly tripping over both Blake and Charlie at the bottom. She heard him mumble an apology, heard him say something about seeing them tonight, and hurried outside with a backward wave.

Her latter two friends ascended the stairs laughing a little at Sam's rush while she watched the black car pull out of the drive with Sam in it.

Reaching the top, Charlie disappeared down the corridor to his room.

Blake paused, seeming to notice both her frown and the direction of her thoughts. "Problem?" he asked, moving near her, looking out with her at the departing car.

_Was there? _"Maybe," she answered. "Maybe."

* * *

tbc


	13. Chapter 13

**Part 13**

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

Like the first victim of a serial killer, Dean had been hoping Addison Wright was important. That something her family said would tell them why she, of all the hikers, still hadn't been found. That something they said would tell them what the ghost in the canyon was after. Who it was. Where it came from. Maybe even—Sam's seeing of an old man aside—that they would tell them something to indicate Addison Wright _was_ the ghost they sought.

It stretched things, but Dean could hope.

They would then, at least, have someplace to start—something to go after. They could start drawing conclusions instead of asking more questions.

Dean had meant what he'd said when he'd told Sam he trusted him. He'd meant it when he'd agreed to _stay close_—more or less. But he hoped that might have meant Sam backing off a little in return. That Sam might cease watching him from under glowering tight eyebrows. He hadn't. So more than anything, Dean wanted answers he could wave in front of Sam and say, _'See—this is it. We'll be done soon. We can go back to freakin' normal.'_

Normal would mean they could move on, which was getting to be more important to Dean every day. He wanted to stop aching and feeling. He wanted to stop interacting with Sam's geek friends. He wanted to stop wondering about Stanford and Sam and that otherworldly normal—all the _what-ifs_ and _might-have-beens_ of his brother. And though he knew Sam was just concerned—Dean still wanted him to stop appraising his every move for possible cracks in his demeanor—or his _health_.

None of it was to be.

When Addison Wright's kind and elderly mother showed them a photo demonstrating her daughter's simple, plain expression, and Sam glanced from it to Dean, tilting it toward him with lifted eyebrows—Dean had to shake his head, telling his brother she wasn't the spirit he'd seen in the canyon, resulting in Sam's barely masked disappointment. Clearly, Sam had been hoping for the same things Dean was.

And the other information they gathered in the interview was just that—information. The kind they gathered just to have—not knowing which of it would be important.

Most of it wouldn't be.

Dean took particular note of the few threads that jumped out at him, threads that paralleled Addison's experience with that of Trace Collins' as well as the snippets that made it different.

Addison's husband—likely her widower—who'd been hiking with her the day she vanished, mentioned fog. That connection was easy. Further, the timing of both the fog and her disappearance also mirrored Trace Collins' experience. The couple had been hiking out of the canyon just after sundown. However, even though Dean asked twice, Ed Wright reported no sighting of an old man.

That didn't mean there hadn't been one. Last night he and Sam had been in the canyon with six other people and, as far as Dean knew, only Sam had seen the man.

Another key difference, perhaps unimportant, was the slight variation in location—Addison had been over a mile deeper in the canyon than the supposed locations of both Trace and Elly. Just to be sure, Dean had the family double check the location on the map. Had them mark it—a process Sam took particular interest in, the concentrated look on his face evident of his effort to connect the dots below the surface of their mystery. A look Dean was pleased with, because it meant Sam was paying attention to something other than _him_.

The final connection Dean found noteworthy was more dubious than well-timed fog. Trace had had an argument with one of his hiking buddies. Addison had argued with her husband. Ed admitted to the occurrence with a flushed frown, eyes drawn down to his toes while his mother-in-law offered them coffee and discreetly excused herself to make it. "She'd left me," he told them after she'd gone fully into the kitchen. "We were separated because… well… I already told the police this but…" he hesitated.

Dean held himself back from pushing, nudging Sam with his knee.

Sam blinked, caught Dean's cue, and spoke with his most sympathetic voice, "I understand this is difficult, Mr. Wright. We're sorry to put you through the same questions, but please go on—anything could help."

As Dean anticipated, Sam's sincere eyes saved the moment.

Wright pushed forward, confessing to the affair he'd hidden from his wife for nearly a year. "I'd ended it. I realized I wanted Addison. But when she found out I'd done it, she left me. Things were bad for a while but we'd been working at it. I wanted her back—and I think she wanted me back too. We started meeting on Saturday afternoons… to take hikes in the canyon to just—talk. The day she disappeared we were arguing about whether or not she'd be able to trust me again. I was getting frustrated and so was she, and then—"

"Then the fog," Dean finished.

"Then the fog," he agreed, sounding hollow.

* * *

When they finished interviewing Addison's relatives, they still had thirty minutes to kill until the interview with Elly Walker. They drove over to the psychiatric center anyway—labeled a _temporary long term care facility_, which didn't make any sense to Dean—situated right across the street from the main clinic where Dean surmised Jack did his volunteer work.

The uneasy truce they'd reached before leaving Charlie's cabin was still in effect but Dean sensed Sam's dissatisfaction with it. Though things appeared to settle into business as usual—Dean felt akin to a wild animal skirting his trainer. Sudden moves on the part of either tensed the situation. A move of Dean's too swift or too slow had Sam's eyes darting in his direction—wary—making Dean overwrought with his own responses.

All of it. All of it was strained.

In the parking lot of the care center where they waited, Dean sat as motionless as possible while Sam connected the wireless on his laptop and started going over the lists he'd made of hikers both missing and found—and thought maybe now might be the time to bring up Sara's possession. But Sam focusing on the case and on the computer lessened the strain for a moment—lessened Sam's annoying hyper vigilance. So instead, Dean closed his mouth and rubbed a thumb to his eyebrow, letting the car stay silent until his little brother spoke.

"Dean, check it out," Sam said, angling the screen toward him. "I think these are the hikers Dad must have been investigating in 1996. They didn't exactly show up on the list we were making before because they didn't exactly go missing. There were four of them. Most of them were with friends—checking out an old cabin in the north fork. The stories are kinda vague but two of them—in separate instances—passed out at the cabin, were carried out and taken to the hospital by their friends. Both died two days later. The other two victims each left the cabin but passed out not long after—were also taken to the hospital—and also died two days later. The authorities thought something in the cabin was making people sick. They eventually boarded it up and put warning signs around it."

Dean listened, glancing at the list—watching as Sam's eyes stayed intent on his computer. "I wonder if we were there before or after they boarded it up," Sam mused aloud. "And here—one article says a mudslide cut off access to the cabin for over a decade. During that time, no deaths—nothing—but before the slide, seven other similar occurrences happened—seven other _documented_ occurrences anyway."

"Articles mention anything about ghosts?" Dean asked, before he remembered he didn't want to encourage Sam's investigation into ten years ago.

"Yeah. Cabin is the source of local legend," Sam read off his computer. "Several hiker's reported seeing a woman's face in the window as they approached."

"Does it—tell the legend? Say who the ghost was?"

"Uh—don't have the legend yet but—" Sam clicked another window. "The ghost is supposedly the spirit of Nora Prisal."

Dean blinked. Not what he'd expected. "_Nora_ Prisal? Are you sure?" Maybe the other article got the name wrong—but how did anyone mix up a name like Nora with a name like Elsa?

"That's what it says." Sam looked at him, measuring. "You think it's connected, don't you?"

"Not really," answered Dean, somehow both hesitating and answering too fast.

Sam's look turned skeptical. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his head and abruptly brought up Sara, finally telling Sam his suspicions—giving him the added bonus of changing the subject. He didn't know why he couldn't just talk about it. But something about ten years ago seemed taboo—cursed if he touched it with words.

"Sara was possessed?" Sam repeated, turning himself in the passenger seat so both face and body countered Dean's profile.

"Pretty sure," Dean answered, checking his watch.

"Did you try 'Cristo'?"

Dean rolled his eyes sideways, letting them linger on Sam long enough to tell his brother he _wasn't_ an idiot. "Possessed by a _ghost_, Sam. Not a demon. A _ghost_." Unless of course a demon was suddenly in the picture—which wouldn't make sense.

"Right," Sam nodded, settling back in his seat sheepishly. "Right. But this was last night? After the canyon?"

"Yeah—couple hours after everyone was sleeping."

Sam leaned forward. "That's where you were when I had the nightmare."

Dean shifted uncomfortably, but nodded. From Sam, the statement was like an accusation. And it wasn't just Sam's tone and body language that clued Dean in to his little brother's thoughts. There was something in his eyes. Sam might as well have just said, "I _knew_ you weren't sleeping!" And then started to yell.

Sam was harping.

Dean was inches from taking drastic measures.

Reading him correctly, Sam sighed, backing off. "So—what does that mean, exactly?"

Dean shrugged, voiced his theory about the reference to latching, then pointed out that Sam was probably the first person this ghost had singled out that had really gotten away—and that maybe it'd just found a way to follow him.

"But she wasn't possessed this morning?"

"Didn't seem like it." Dean checked his watch again. It was almost time for the interview.

Sam realized it too—started packing away the laptop and papers. "Great, so—anything else about my friends I should know?" he asked as he finished, popping the door to step out.

Dean followed. "Your friend Kim is hot and bothered for you and your friend Blake is a prick."

Sam glared over the roof of the car. He ignored the Kim comment, returning Dean's statement with, "You still giving Blake a hard time?"

Dean was supremely impressed with himself when he _didn't_ roll his eyes.

"Well, try to lay off him, okay? He's an okay guy, he's just really competitive—it'll be easier for us if you don't get into it with him."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dean shrugged, leading the way into the care center, skillfully pretending to ignore Sam's loud sigh behind him. Yet, something about the sigh grabbed at something in Dean—some thought, some memory. Involuntarily, his hand found its way to his heart, rubbing at the sudden feeling there. Something like absence. Something like fear.

Behind him, his brother sighed again—weary and worried. Heavy.

Dean realized what he was doing and dropped the hand. _Sammy breathes too loud_, he concluded, and shook off the sense of déjà vu when it came.

* * *

The attending receptionist led them to Elly's room with snooty steps and an air of suspicion, looking behind her repeatedly to eye Sam's bruised face. Sam reached for it tentatively, wondering if it had suddenly grown in size. Her scrutiny also made him inauspiciously aware of the other bruises over his body. Though he'd ignored them most of the day, he felt them start to ache—ache in a way that made him wonder where they'd left the ibuprofen. Her stare also made him wonder_ why the hell _she wasn't sharing the scrutinizing wealth with Dean, whose forehead still looked pretty gross and crusty.

The receptionist stopped. "She's in here," she told them, tapping the grey door without really tapping it. "Now who set up this interview for you again?"

"Milo Turner," Sam said patiently. "We're following up on the investigation through Search and Rescue."

She nodded dubiously. "Mr. Turner isn't here right now."

"This is the time he asked us to come. Didn't he tell you that?"

She looked chagrined. "Yes. But Ms. Walker doesn't always respond well to visitors so if she gets agitated, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Mr. Turner said she'd spoken to the earlier investigators without problem."

"She did, but—"

"We're experienced in what we do, ma'am," Dean spoke, surprising Sam with the gentleness that came out of his voice. "We're not here to cause problems—just to make sure something like what happened to Ms. Walker doesn't happen to anyone else. Please, let us do our job."

Sam watched as Dean's eyes held the woman's. Blushing, she rather quickly backed down. "Of course," she agreed. She glanced at the door, touched her bun, and when she spoke again her tone was more civil. "Elly responds completely normal to some people but not to others. She's a very unusual case. After she woke up in the hospital she kept saying she didn't want to be alone—but her closest family she won't seem to let near her."

"Does she have family nearby?" Dean asked.

"No. Her parents came to visit. They left yesterday. I think her mother's coming back but… even while they were here, Elly wouldn't see them. Her fiancé comes the most often. She lets him in the room but doesn't speak to him much." She stopped, appeared ready to say more but hesitated. "I hope you find the answers you're looking for," she said carefully. "I used to go hiking through that canyon myself, especially after my Robert passed. My dogs love the river…" she trailed off, looking embarrassed. Stepping back, she turned, glancing at them just once more as she moved down the hall.

Sam watched her stop to speak with an orderly briefly, watched her point at them, and assumed the man had just been assigned to look out for trouble.

"Wow," Sam said in the wake of her absence—squinting his eyes at Dean—comments about shapeshifters or doppelgangers playing on his lips.

"Shut up," Dean preempted, opening the door.

Sam grinned and followed.

* * *

The room was larger than what you'd find in a regular hospital facility. Brighter. White walls painted with blue and yellow trim. Dried flowers of varying genus were pinned eclectically to the ceiling, hanging down like a raining garden. Sam was caught a little off guard by the sight and ran into Dean when his brother stopped in front of him.

All in all, Elly Walker looked much more sedate than Sam expected, considering the obvious reluctance of the staff to let them in. Her hair was a touch stringy—long, wavy—curtaining her face as she sat hunched over a book on her bed, but splitting back naturally when she looked up into Dean's face.

His brother didn't take any additional steps forward—seemed to have stopped moving entirely. Sam shifted his weight and froze cautiously behind him.

"Elly Walker?" Dean asked—as though you could walk into a room like this by mistake.

"I'm Elly," she said calmly, in a way that, again, left Sam expecting something much more… _insane_.

"My name is Dean—this is Sam," Dean gestured behind him.

Elly moved off the bed. She wore a t-shirt and some form of yoga pant. No hospital garb. "Do I know you?" she asked, still looking at Dean.

"No," Dean answered, sounding to Sam very—understanding. With his brother still in front of him, Sam's full view of the room was blocked—boxed into the short entryway they'd bottlenecked in after entering. Sam felt cramped, but Dean wasn't moving.

"I don't know you," Elly clarified. She looked confused, bit her lip and stared at the floor as though trying to decipher a puzzle. "Can I help you?" The polite words sounded forced, like maybe someone had told her she should say them.

Dean tossed Sam a look over his shoulder, then shrugged and took a step forward. "We wanted to ask you some questions about your… accident… in the canyon."

"Are you the police?"

"No," Dean answered. Sam wondered if Dean would go into the whole Search and Rescue spiel and hoped he wouldn't because he didn't think it was appropriate.

"We just want to make sure what happened to you doesn't happen to anyone else."

Elly looked up again—eyes wider. She moved forward, stopping right in front of Dean. She reached out, as if she was going to cup a hand to his jaw, but didn't, pausing just short of completing the motion. "What happened to me?"

Sam's heart sank. If _she _didn't know what happened to her, she sure wasn't going to be able to tell _them_. He sucked in his cheek—tried not to let disappointment show on his face. He wished again Dean would move, and he shifted his weight, left foot to right foot, at his brother's back.

"Well," Dean said, continuing to surprise Sam with his approach. "Maybe we can help you figure that out. What do you remember?"

Elly grimaced, dropping her hand back down to her side. "What I remember—makes people think I'm crazy. What I remember, says it wasn't an _accident_."

"Maybe it wasn't an accident," said Dean. "And maybe we won't think you're crazy."

Elly looked at them both for a long time, then slowly—slowly—nodded her head. She walked to the window. When she spoke it was staccato, but lucid, wry, touched with the guileless sarcasm Sam associated with Charlie. "I was hiking. I passed out. They said I went missing. I woke up here. Or not _here_ exactly—the clinic across the street."

"None of that really sounds crazy." Dean finally stepped farther into the room.

Sam moved to his side.

Elly smiled a little—like she appreciated the way Dean said it. "They said I got lost in the fog."

"That doesn't sound so crazy either."

She faced them again, back to the window. "I guess not. I remember the fog. And then—I remember the voices. Voices. I guess that's the crazy part."

Despite the direction of the conversation, Sam wasn't expecting her candor. He held back from asking questions, content for now to let this be Dean's.

"What kind of voices?"

Elly's hand went to her forehead. "Angry voices. They kept saying I was… alone." Her voice cracked on _alone_ and when she dropped her hand her eyes were watered. "What's wrong with me?"

For some reason, this current version of gentle-Dean chose to ignore the last part. "Did you see anyone when you heard the voices?"

Her eyebrows drew together—until they almost touched. "I saw—a man. But he wasn't really there. I don't know how I know, but he _wasn't_ really there. I think I walked through him." She laughed a little—high pitched and deprecating—looking at them as though hoping they could explain it. Make it normal. Make it right.

"That's what the other hikers said, Elly," Dean explained softly. It was overgeneralizing, Sam thought, but true enough. "They said they saw a man. And they got lost in the fog. I don't think you're crazy."

Sam could tell Elly was listening so he didn't understand why Dean suddenly hesitated. "Did you feel anything?" he finally asked. Something in his voice—Sam looked at him—tried not to make the motion sharp. The question bothered him. Something about the way Dean asked it.

"Yes," Elly was nodding. "For a minute, there was—pain." Her lips trembled. "But then—everything was black. Everything was black and I woke up."

"That's the very next thing you remember?"

"Yes," she said. "Like I'm missing time."

"That's everything? Do you remember anything from when you were out?"

Sam wasn't watching Elly anymore. He was watching Dean. Dean had asked _him_ that too—it seemed a throw away question at the time. Now he knew it wasn't. There was something behind it. It bothered him, gave him just one more thing about Dean to worry over. And he couldn't stop the sudden grinding of his teeth. _Hell of a time to be holding back on me, Dean._

"No," Elly shook her head, looking confused.

Sam waited for Dean to speak, but Dean was looking contemplative and Sam took that as his cue to take over. "The man you saw? What did he look like?"

Elly's head snapped toward him, like she just then noticed he was there. "You _know_," she said forcefully—loudly. She moved toward Sam but spoke to Dean, twisting her head to catch Dean's eyes—agitated. "I know you know, and he knows. But he shouldn't be here." Her finger lifted to wave in Sam's face.

Sam had a feeling the _insane_ he'd been expecting had just arrived.

"He shouldn't be here!"

Dean glanced at him. "Sam, maybe…"

Sam stepped back, ready to exit. But his hand froze on the doorknob, watching, because Elly was suddenly a _lot _closer to Dean. They hadn't said she could be dangerous but—

Sam tensed.

Elly's hand reached up to trace Dean's face. "Remember?" she said softly. Dean's eyes grazed Sam's but were back to Elly's in a flash—just as her hand moved from Dean's face to his heart.

It was probably just metaphorical coincident that made both Sam and Dean flinch at the gesture.

Dean stepped back, against the wall.

Sam was relieved when Elly didn't follow him. She stepped back, and though out of Dean's personal space, she kept staring at his face. "You're still too far away. It's harder now. You're not close enough. You will be. You'll go back. But it's him," she pointed at Sam again. "It's him." Her eyes were suddenly lucid as she looked at Sam and said calmly, "He should leave." She went back to the window. "I'll answer more of your questions, but he should leave."

Dubious, unsure, Sam waited until Dean gave him a nod—jerking his chin at the door. Even then, he twisted the handle on the door with doubt—stepping out of the room slowly.

And when he was back in the hallway, he didn't let the door close all the way.

* * *

tbc


	14. Chapter 14

**Part 14**

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

Sam expected to encounter one of the orderlies, a nurse—maybe even the snapping impatient face of the receptionist again—when he exited the room.

He was surprised when he encountered instead—_Charlie's brother_?—seated stiffly on a hallway bench just yards from the door, head bowed and balanced into hands stabilized by elbows on knees, faintly shaking the unaffected image of him Sam had built into his subconscious.

"Jack?" he said, before common sense caught up enough to remind him that initiating conversation would likely lead to the uncomfortable task of explaining his presence.

Jack's head jerked upward. "Sam?" he said—clearly just as thrown.

Sam shuffled his feet, glancing nervously back into Elly's room through the part of the door he'd left open, catching a sliver of Dean in profile.

Jack stood, dropping one hand into a pocket of the white doctor's coat he wore. A pristine coat that made him look official—official enough to blow his and Dean's cover right out of the water and run them either into jail or out of town. And Sam suspected, if Jack started asking the right questions, he wouldn't want to lie to him any more than he'd wanted to lie to Charlie.

"They told me she was being interviewed," Jack spoke, waving a hand at the room—as though he were the one being asked to explain himself. His eyes turned to Sam. "You said your brother was an investigator—a consultant? He's here to investigate… what's been happening… isn't he?"

Sam found it odd that Jack sounded almost—hopeful? But he might have just been imagining things because Jack's face quickly returned to stoic impassiveness—an ability other doctors surely coveted. Sam was relieved enough at the lack of explanation required of him to just nod.

Jack sighed, dropping back to the bench he'd been sitting on.

Sam followed—sitting tentatively at the other end. "Are you her doctor?" he asked gently, sensing more and already thinking—_probably not_. From what little Charlie had said, Sam didn't think Jack worked psychiatric.

Jack brushed a hand over his face, rubbing a finger roughly across his chin. Something Sam had seen Charlie do repeatedly—nervously—before diving into large exams or when struggling with a particularly intense term paper. "She's my fiancée," Jack answered, and if it hadn't been for the gesture, Sam might have thought the tone simple enough for Jack to be telling him the weather.

Beyond that, Sam's mind was already connecting dots. "That's why you were so worried about Charlie going into the canyon last night."

Jack looked at him steadily—then nodded.

Sam's first impressions had told him Jack and Charlie were as different from each other as he and Dean were, but they shared the same eyes and probably a lot more if people looked for it—like him and Dean. Surfaces were deceiving.

"He doesn't know about this, does he?"

Jack shook his head, eyes a little guilty. "He doesn't even know I'm engaged," he explained—laughing tightly, as though realizing it might sound absurd. But because Sam was, lately, well acquainted with the '_cry_ or _laugh insanely_' dilemma, he didn't fault the reaction, and listened when Jack kept speaking, words precise and controlled.

"Elly's a biologist. She's been working on a study here in Lander about invasive species and I took leave from my residency so we could spend some… time. We'd finally decided to get married. We've been engaged for a month but… haven't told anyone yet. Her parents are… difficult. I would've told Charlie when he came this weekend—he was already planning to come out when everything happened."

Jack shifted his gaze to the cracked-open door hiding Dean and his fiancée.

"With everything that went on—with Elly being here. I couldn't. I didn't want to ruin his vacation." Jack laughed a little at that too, but it was the fake _'laugh or cry'_ kind again. Which Sam thought maybe came out because people like Jack _couldn't_ cry, or at least didn't want to.

Like Dean, who got emotional, but not in front of Sam if he could help it—and not often were there actual tears.

"You should tell him," Sam mumbled, because it's what he would want if he found himself in Charlie's shoes. "I'm sure he would still want to know—vacation or not." The last statement was stronger, Sam thinking of all the times Dean tried keeping things to himself, tried keeping things together _by himself_ under the idiotic pretense of protecting his family—under the guise of not being a burden to those he loved and should therefore have no problem leaning on.

Jack nodded. "I know. Our family's never been big into—_communication_. It's just the way we were raised. A few years back our mother even had breast cancer. She was in remission _two years_ before Charlie and I even knew about it. We don't—tell things. I guess I just… don't know any other way. Charlie's different though—always has been."

_Me too_, thought Sam. _Me too_.

They lapsed into silence until another question worked its way forward in Sam's head. "We're you with her," he asked carefully, "in the canyon?"

"Yes," said Jack, frowning his eyebrows, as though trying to dredge up the details.

"Can you tell me about it?"

Jack rubbed a hand over his face again. "I'll tell you what I can."

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996 _

Dean had been right about morning.

Dad _did_ move away—sliding out from behind him, settling him back to the bed—gentle and careful, holding heavy fingers to the pulse in Dean's neck, feeling his forehead, and then gone altogether. Dean felt the absence of warmth, and his heart clenched—dipped into a hollow thump thump for a few short seconds—before he realized the pain he'd anticipated hadn't rushed back.

That's when he remembered Sam was still on the bed with him. Sam was still connected to him.

Dean could feel the points of contact where his little brother's legs hooked awkwardly over his own. He knew Sam well enough to call a mental picture to his mind—could 'see' Sammy lying more vertically on the bed than horizontally. Could picture arms sprawled askew, Sammy's hair spiked up everywhere, because the kid insisted on keeping it as long as he could when he could get away with it—when Dad was distracted and battles over haircuts fell to the bottom of the priority list.

The physical link was tenuous—Sammy being asleep and unaware—but Dean trusted it.

Maybe his dad did too, because when he finally woke Sammy up, separating him from Dean and sending him to the bathroom—he stayed, resting his hand absently on Dean's forehead until Sam had finished and come back. He made no comment when Sam resettled on the bed, toes flush to Dean's hip—handing whatever food he'd made for breakfast right where Sam sat—where Dean could hear him munching at it over the rumpled folds of bed sheets, where crumbs would disappear and never be found.

The feet squirmed under and into Dean's side while _Happy Days_ played on the TV in the background.

It was familiar. It was peaceful. For a full twenty minutes, Dean didn't worry about his father and brother and how far away the day might take them, or how long he might be left waiting for their return. He didn't even worry about how long it might be till he actually really 'woke up.'

He didn't worry until he felt his father's hands on him again—felt the quickly painful prick in his arm and realizedwhat his father was doing. Inserting an IV.

Even Sammy knew what that meant, because the twisting feet under Dean's ribs froze—one of Sammy's hands fisting into the shoulder of Dean's t-shirt. When he spoke, his little brother's voice came out low and accusing—sounding betrayed. "You said he'd wake up soon."

"He _will_, Sam." There was a tone to their father's voice—like _need—_emphasized by the short of Sam's name. Because to John Winchester, Sammy was only ever _Sam_ when John needed him to be—when John wanted him to _step it up_ a little. And that was typically when _things_ in their life—their family—got unusually hairy. When Dean-as-primary-back-up was no longer enough.

In a flash Sam would go from being the youngest—the _protected_—to being asked to instantly change, to take on a role Dean habitually claimed as his own, leaving Sammy to feel inadequate, unprepared, and justifiably worried about measuring up.

Since Dean was often the catalyst for the required role change—being injured, or hurt, or absent—his experience was at the fringe of these moments. Observing and dealing only with the aftermath of Sammy being mopey, morose, or unjustly feeling guilty enough to spend nights crying himself to sleep.

And that was _before_ the surly twelve-year-old had taken over.

Somehow felt little brother wasn't about to respond well to their father's tone.

He was right.

"If he's gonna wake up soon, why does he need that?" Sam challenged.

The needle jerked in Dean's arm but his dad's hands almost instantly steadied. "He will," John insisted. "But I also told you it wouldn't be immediate, and we need to take care of him until he does. Now hand me that tape."

Sam's feet shifted away from Dean's ribs, and as they separated, Dean felt his little brother's tiny tremble—and knew something was coming. "I _hate_ you!" Sam shouted, the dip and shift of weight telling Dean he'd flung himself from the bed. It was followed a moment later by the crisp slam of the bathroom door and John's deeply weary sigh.

The hands were gentle as they taped the IV to Dean's skin, holding his wrist loosely for a long moment when the task was done.

Then they left him. The hands left him.

Instantaneously torn, Dean knew the pain would be worse this time.

And he was right about that too.

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

"Okay, spill," Sam ordered, once they were back in the car moving down main street, past two taxidermy locals, toward a pizza place Dean had spied on their earlier drive.

Dean had a headache but didn't want to take the extra strength pain reliever in his glove compartment on an empty stomach. He would have popped something else but knew from experience nothing else worked for him. Besides, he was legitimately hungry and amply aware his breakfast had been sparse.

"I already told you everything she said," he told Sam—who was looking a little worn himself, a fact Dean hadn't been the only one to notice. "Did you take the ibuprofen Jack gave you?"

"_Yes_," Sam answered, testy because Jack's doctor instincts had chosen to focus on him and his bruises over Dean's weary paleness—_score_. "And that's not what I meant. You're holding out on me."

Dean _was_ holding out on him, but he also wasn't ready to spill everything to Sam when what he was holding onto most likely—honestly—didn't matter. He blinked. It was all just memory—none of it was _real_. Not in the way Dean thought of physical pain. Though sometimes it _felt_ physical—felt as though someone with a spoon was ever so slowly carving out his heart—he was pretty sure it was just a result of all the stuff that'd been piled onto them lately. Which made him even less eager to examine it—to delve into the details Sam didn't know about '96 or anything else.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he lied, not looking at Sam's face. And he was truly disappointed because he thought he'd made a fair show of filling Sam in back at the care center—telling him there was another ghost story involving an Elsa Prisal, spilling all his observations and theories about how each person who disappeared had a recent argument with someone close to them. Which was true even for Jack, who said he'd argued with Elly because she'd wanted him to change residency to the hospital in Riverton so they could both stay in Lander instead of moving back to Boston—afraid the time apart would be too hard on them.

"You and I didn't fight," Sam had insisted.

"Maybe not—but you were annoyed with me," Dean threw back, not bothering to mention he'd been annoyed with Sam as well.

Sam had rolled his eyes and ignored him—much like he was doing now. "It's the same ghost as ten years ago—isn't it?"

Dean pulled into the parking lot of the pizza joint—settling the car near the entrance. "I really don't think so, Sam." This time he did look at his brother. This time it was honest. Neither Elly nor Sam had had the same experience while being unconscious that he'd had ten years ago. That had to mean something.

Sam scrutinized him before getting out of the car. "Then what aren't you telling me?" Sam insisted, leaning his arms on the car's roof with a fruitless gesture that made Dean think Sam would have grabbed him if he were close enough to be grabbed and the car didn't separate them.

"Nothing, Sam. Relax. Let's just go eat." He shut his door, verbally stopping Sam before he did the same, "Bring Dad's journal. I want to check it again. Elly said 'voices' so that definitely means more than one ghost. I want to figure out how they fit together—if they fit together. And we need to figure out who the old guy is—was. I have a feeling he's the important one in all this."

"A feeling or a _feeling_," Sam muttered sarcastically, but Dean saw him reach in for the journal before following him to the restaurant's door.

* * *

The pizza was good—better than most.

Dean was on his third slice before he noticed his brother was still on his first. He watched as Sam chewed absently on his straw while his head bent intently over their father's journal. He looked tired but he also looked… in his element. _Studious_.

Dean's thoughts started to wander. With supreme effort he tried to pull them back. _Don't go there_, he told himself, but it was useless. His brain could only avoid the subject for so long, and it'd been pushing for attention since running into Sam's friends at the Oxbow. Stanford. Sam's own version of normal. Safe. A place where Sam didn't get knocked out or get bruises on his face. A place where Sam had, by all accounts, been happy, until Dean had come and dragged him out.

_Damn it._

_Sam_ was the one who was supposed to get caught up in these stupid thoughts—not him.

Dean flicked his eyes to the pizza on Sam's plate. "Not hungry?" he questioned.

Sam glanced up at him then right back down. "No, no, I am—I just… like you said… want to see if Dad has anything of use to us in here."

Dean rolled his eyes. That wasn't what Sam was looking for at all. He had the feeling Sam was looking for the few vague references to '96 Dean had read earlier—hoping they'd tell him whatever he suspected Dean wasn't. Sighing, Dean took another bite of his slice. It's not as if he could stop him, and calling him on it would only make things worse.

The sigh caught Sam's attention like the pizza hadn't. He looked up, peering at Dean's eyes. "Headache?" he asked, and Dean wasn't sure if he was being asked or cross-examined.

"I'm fine, Sam." He'd already popped the pain reliever when his brother wasn't looking.

Sam snorted.

"Look," Dean said tersely, "I'm here, okay. I'm not off by myself, just like you wanted. Can you back off already?"

Sam's look was doubtful—annoyed—then finally apologetic. He nodded, picking up another slice of pizza at last. "Casserole," he said, taping the leather bound book before him.

"Come again?"

"The ghosts—they are a casserole." He slid the book over to Dean, taping the bottom of the open page. And there at the base, in his father's brief scratchy handwriting, it actually showed the word _casserole_. Below it: _Deaths tied to the same tragedy or event can create spirits that are irrevocably tied together resulting in a casserole, the spirits within having limited or varying ability to operate independently._

"These ghosts," Sam said earnestly when Dean looked up. "They're a casserole. That's why you saw a woman and I saw man sitting in the same place at the same time."

Dean shook his head disbelievingly.

"What?" Sam questioned. "What else could it be?"

"Not that—I just can't _believe_ Dad called it that."

"Well, it makes sense," Sam shrugged. "I mean—they're all mixed together just like a… casserole."

This time Dean _did_ roll his eyes. "Thanks. I get it." He did. But this was one of those times he realized his father and brother's brains were aligned in a parallel manner that totally eluded him.

Sam grabbed another pizza slice, making them even. "It means our ghosts have to be tied to the same event—we just have to figure out what that event is—or was."

_Yeah, no challenge there_. He hated it when Sam made inherently difficult things sound like they should be easy.

They fell to silence again, Sam bending back over the book, and Dean _still_ knew what he was really looking for.

"You know, I was thinking," he began hesitantly, watching the top of Sam's head, wondering why he was about to say what he was about to say when he wasn't sure he wanted to, "if you ever wanted to go back to Stanford… you know… do the whole law school thing. We could make that happen." He tried to keep his voice steady—wondering again what he thought he was doing.

Maybe he owed it Sam to at least suggest it. Maybe he just wanted to know where Sam really stood on the subject. Maybe he just wanted to know if...

"What?" Sam's head snapped up, voice whisper harsh.

Dean cleared his throat. "That Blake guy said he could help you get another interview."

It wasn't even like it was the first time Dean had had thoughts like this… not even the first time he'd said them out loud. After The Hookman incident he'd known, meeting Lorie, that the good reverend's daughter was exactly the type of girl his brother fit with—nice, loyal, intelligent. He'd felt then—for a moment—guilty about the life his brother led, knowing he'd once wanted so much more. "_We could stay_," he'd said. "_We_" because leaving Sam behind or alone wasn't something he was ready for—then or now.

Then, Sam's expression had been drawn and tight.

Now, Sam's expression was incredulous. "If I wanted to go back to school right now I wouldn't need Blake to get me an interview. Besides, you hate Blake. You think he's an idiot."

"No, I think he's a dick. Not the same thing. And if he could help you, then…"

"I'm not going back to school, Dean. What about the thing that killed Mom, and Jess? What about finding Dad? Where the hell is this coming from?"

"Dad doesn't want to be found," Dean reminded.

Sam glared.

Dean didn't speak right away. When he did, he still didn't answer Sam's question. "I could stick with you, for a little while… till you got back into things. Just to make sure you were… you know… okay and everything—"

"_Dean!_" Sam waved a hand, cutting him off, making the people in the booth two tables down turn to stare at them. Sam wasn't just incredulous now—he was tipping toward livid. "What_ the hell_?"

* * *

tbc


	15. Chapter 15

**Part 15**

* * *

_Sinks Canyon, south fork, 2006 _

Over a half-mile down the trail into the south fork canyon and Sam still wasn't speaking to him.

At all.

Not a word.

Not _one_ word since he'd rolled his eyes away from Dean, folded their dad's journal carefully closed, slid from the booth, and walked out of the restaurant with overly casual movements that belied the quiet intensity in his frame. Intensity that lingered—present in the tightly controlled way Sam had held himself in the Impala's passenger seat when Dean had caught up with him after paying the bill. Immoveable. Like the combined armies of heaven and hell were the only things with half a chance of budging him.

Dean had rolled his own eyes and sighed loudly when he'd got in behind the wheel—pushing but not pushing. He'd asked Sam if he wanted to stop at the library and considered it a tiny victory when Sam's dark eyes had slid over to him before issuing a terse negation with a compressed mouth and jerked jaw. But that was all he'd got.

Sam had remained rigid and silent the entire drive to the trailhead, where he'd shadowed Dean to the trunk and grabbed one of the scanners and Dean's black satchel before Dean could grab it himself.

He didn't look at Dean beyond one or two spared glares, simply followed him resolutely—doggedly close to Dean's heels—as they made their way into a canyon where people who argued disappeared. Which worried Dean. But it was daylight, and he planned for both himself and his brother to be long gone before darkness set in—planned to have Sam out of there before even the barest inkling of twilight.

They walked in silence, pausing periodically, veering off trail to check their scanners against different points in the open meadow where they'd been eating hotdogs the night before. When they found nothing, they moved on.

Beyond the meadow, the trail arched upward then descended again, taking them close to the river edging along their collective right, then leading them down into another shadowed hollow where the trees grew taller and the canyon walls melted into background.

Dean didn't pull the map when they hit the clearing, but he touched it where it sat folded in his jacket pocket—like the mere feel of the crinkled paper could make the memory of the marks on it clearer in his mind. He was pretty sure they were in the spot where Jack and Elly had had their fight. In another half-mile they'd be in the spot where Addison Wright and her husband had theirs.

Glancing behind him, Dean was about to verbalize their location, but his brother's eyes were still smokey and he kept periodically shaking his head, rocking his jaw as he released air through his nose.

Briefly, their eyes met.

Sam stilled his movements then drew his eyebrows down and looked away.

_Yeah_, Dean muttered to himself, thinking again of the ghosts, _this is our brightest idea ever_. He rubbed his neck, let his eyes roll upward, and ended up moving off the trail without saying anything, because Sam was apparently planning to hold onto whatever anger Dean had sparked in him like a dog with a big freakin' fat meaty bone. He bit back his frustration, held the EMF meter up in front of him and took careful steps along the water's edge.

Sam followed suit.

Dean watched as Sam checked his thermal scanner's lack of readouts with exaggerated concentration. Sam was obviously ignoring, but well aware of, Dean's periodic gaze, because when Dean looked away he could feel Sam's eyes dart over.

He focused on his own meter, changing angles. They really shouldn't be doing this now. Not like this.

He was thinking he should have found away to leave Sam back at the cabin, regardless of Sam's sudden separation anxiety. He was thinking also, in retrospect, that Sam's reaction to the back-to-school suggestion wasn't totally unexpected. Dean knew from experience, when Sam got a thought—a _direction_—in his head, he could be like a damn steaming locomotive. Suggesting a detour took dangerous derailing, or the more precise slower navigation of _foresight_—of switch tracks and time.

Their Dad was like that.

Maybe Dean himself was too, but it was easier to see in others what you couldn't see in yourself.

Part of him realized that suggesting Sam return to school was the same as suggesting Sam drop the pursuit of his girlfriend's killer. Like Jessica didn't matter. As though his little brother could go back to his normal life without the grief, the ache, or the ever wondering worry of how or when it would happen again.

Sam was now more like their dad than ever that way—revenge, safety, need, precaution, kill or be killed. The wonderful world of John Winchester.

Dean forgot sometimes that his family didn't hunt for the same reasons he did—not exactly. They didn't hunt just to protect people, because it just needed to be done. They didn't hunt to cling to the threads of those they and anyone else had left. They didn't hunt because it just—_was_.

But Dean was also starting to think maybe Sam's reaction to the school suggestion held something more. Because there was something there. Something like—_fear_.

Fear was a concept Dean knew well. Fear he could recognize.

He had tasted it, bitter on his tongue, as words he didn't really want to say slipped out of his mouth, because maybe he'd thought Sam might actually just need to hear them. Words said because he didn't want Sam to feel trapped or miserable by this life—didn't want Sam's views on their life to turn into nothing but resentment. Words said because he didn't want Sam to resent _him_.

And Dean had no qualms admitting where his own fear came from. It was fear charged by a conjured image of Sam looking grateful and free and possibly saying something like, 'Yeah, sure, I'm dying to go back to school. Thanks,' and, 'Catch ya later, Dean. Maybe in another few years, huh?'

Dean didn't want Sam to resent him, but he wasn't sure he could bare, again, that empty space.

Fiddling with the meter, he stared at his brother, that hard jaw, and wondered what Sam's fear conjured.

Sam tossed him another glare from the river's edge. He'd been watching him again—all dark and intent—and Dean suddenly realized he'd probably have had a more realistic chance of convincing John Winchester to become a damn banker than getting Sam back to school.

The relief was bittersweet. Dean was relieved Sam hadn't said, 'Sure, thanks, catch ya later,' but his determination to stay didn't actually ease the growing ache behind Dean's sternum. Not one bit.

Dean dragged a thumb down his breastbone and looked back to the trees. He shook his thoughts free of that train wreck and checked his watch. They still had time. He walked back to the trail intent on making the next half-mile to the spot where Addison Wright's family said she'd disappeared.

The crunch of footsteps on the canyon's brittle floor behind him told him that Sam still followed.

* * *

The EMF meter stayed quiet as they moved. And by the time the next half-mile had been gained the silence from Sam was getting to Dean.

He stopped where the trail once again dropped and kissed the river, opening their view to another hollow. He pulled out the map of the canyon, rustling the paper extra loud just to have some other sound between him and his brother besides running river water and wind shifted trees. It was late enough in the day and early enough in the season that not even the birds were talking.

Sam came up next to him, close, catching the map's corner to steady it as Dean finished unfolding.

"We're here," Dean confirmed, pointing at the red x, his own voice feeling a little grated after the length of disuse. He looked left to see if Sam would respond.

He didn't. He met Dean's eyes, but shook his head, adjusted the strap of the black satchel over his shoulder, and walked away to the river without saying anything.

Haphazardly, Dean refolded the map, feeling his own irritation in the stiff motions he used. Deciding he didn't want to play the silent game any more he called out in the wake of his brother's retreating steps, using all the command and rank of big brother he had in him, "_Sam_, it was just a—_thought! _Chill, okay?"

Responding to the command, the tone, or maybe something else, Sam turned to look at him, flitting back a gaze less steady than the glare he'd been sporting, a gaze softer than the _tight_ still carried in his chin. "Do you _want_ me to go?" he asked after a moment.

And here it was, Dean being cross-examined again. Sam wasn't asking idly. Whatever answer Dean gave would potentially be used as evidence against him in whatever case Sam was building. By his brother's tone, there was an answer Sam already suspected—expected—and it was already the wrong one.

Dean ended up not saying anything.

Sam shook his head and stalked off to trace the river.

Dean bit the inside of his cheek and turned with his meter to scan the opposite side of the clearing. "Know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em," he muttered, not generally prone to quoting Kenny Rodgers—_ever_—but his dad had, on occasion.

They worked in a circle, opposite each other.

Dean was covering the side of the clearing farthest from the water when the EMF blinked—vague, brief, but _something_.

Sam was instantly at his side. "Dean?"

Dean nodded his head at Sam's scanner. "Point it that way—see if you get anything."

Sam complied, eyes crinkling in attentiveness. "It's something," he said, sweeping the scanner back out to the canyon wall, then tilting it for Dean to see, "something, but I—ahhh," Sam moaned, breaking off abruptly.

"Sam?" Dean moved in, having to duck his head to see Sam's face because his taller brother had hunched down, bowing his body like the black satchel on his shoulder was suddenly too heavy to hold. Dean calculated how long it might take to unzip it and pull a shotgun while his eyes darted to the water, curious and relived when he didn't see fog.

He chanced a glance at his watch. They had hours before twilight. This shouldn't be happening. His brother's eyes were squinted shut, knees bending like he'd hit the dirt if Dean didn't do something. "Sam?" he repeated.

At the sound of his name, Sam's eyes darted out to him, his face slightly paled, making the bruise stand out above the straight line of his mouth, but he was somehow staying upright. "Don't _leave_ me," he growled at Dean.

"I'm _here_, Sammy," he said, fisting his hands into Sam's jacketed shoulders, trying to leverage him up.

"_Now_ you are," Sam bit, staring at Dean accusingly, frightened.

_What the hell was this?_ Dean wondered. "That's right, I'm here and I'm not going anywhere without you, but right now we need to get you out of here. We both need to get out of here." _Did Sammy even hear what he was saying? Was he with him? Did his brother even know who he was?_

"Dean," Sam grit succinctly.

_Guess that answers one question_, Dean thought, moving his grip anxiously toward Sam's elbow at the same time Sam reached his arm up to him and said his name again in a whisper. Dean felt his heartbeat pound to double time in response to the intensity in Sam's voice and tried not to think about it, tried to _act_ instead of letting himself get sucked into his own fear at the sound of his little brother's desperation.

Deftly, he pulled the satchel off Sam's shoulder, shrugged it over his own, and grabbed Sam's wrist with the intention of winding Sam's arm around his shoulders as well.

Sam stumbled.

Dean struggled to balance both their weights at once.

"_Dean_," Sam whispered again, gripping at him, clearly trying to help—his cold hand finding and latching onto the back of Dean's neck.

"Ahhhugh," Dean grunted, biting his lip on the sudden cry, trying not to bow over himself from the pain Sam's touch seemed to ignite through his skin—pain not as intense as last night but still—_there_. He reached back to grab Sam's wrist again, yanking the grip off his skin, and pulling Sam's arm over his clothed shoulder instead.

It didn't help. Pain continued to roll through him, snapping down his spine. Coupled with the sense of something building. Something coming for them.

"Dean?" Sam questioned.

Dean could feel his trembling. "Move, Sammy," he ordered, yanking his brother forcefully, determinedly, as he shoved them both resolutely _away_, the arm around Sam's waist steadying his younger brother's swaying steps. "Go. _Go_!"

He had them up out of the clearing in minutes, where the pain finally started to fade, but he didn't stop, kept them going—fast—not letting go of Sam or letting them pause until they were all the way back to the car.

When they made it, he could barely breathe from how fast they'd been moving. His muscles burned as Sam disengaged from him and dropped to his knees, hunching forward. Dean wondered for a moment if his little brother was about to throw up. He didn't. He sat instead, sliding his back against the Impala's front tire, tilting his head up, heaving air heavily.

"Sam? Still hurt?" Dean asked anxiously, dropping beside him, scanning him—scanning also the exit to the trailhead as if perchance it might show a ghost pursuing them.

There was nothing.

Nothing.

They were alone. And still the only car in the parking lot.

Sam shook his head. "No," he answered. "Pain's gone. It was just. That was just—that was weird."

"Yeah," Dean answered, sitting, leaning back on the car next to his brother, bending his knee up where it bumped Sam's. "Back there—was that you talking or something else?"

Sam shrugged, closed his eyes—still looking breathless. "Guess it was me—but—I don't know. Felt like vertigo—felt like—" He opened his eyes to rake Dean, looking for something, sweeping his gaze from head to toe. "It felt like—felt like you were dying again."

It was Dean's turn to furrow eyebrows. That wasn't the answer he expected, and his mind fought to connect the pieces. "Felt like I was dying again?" His hand went immediately, absently, to his heart—rubbing. It was just Sam, the thought, the unconscious power of suggestion from Sam's worry that made him do it—but he did it anyway, rubbing at the sudden ache, only aware of it when Sam's eyes widened to a stare at the action.

Dean realized what it looked like and dropped the hand, fast. "_No_," he barked to Sam's panic. "No—damn it, Sam, my heart's fine." He sat straighter against the car, bumping his knee now purposely into Sam's, letting their shoulders touch—connect. He grinned wanly but forcefully. "I'm _fine_."

Sam didn't look like he believed him.

"But maybe that's it—maybe that's our answer," Dean said. "Maybe that ghost in the canyon can amplify people's fears or something—like how Dr. Ellicott could amplify anger."

Sam flinched, just slightly, at the mention of Ellicott. Dean tried to pretend not to notice.

"You're just _guessing_," said Sam, sounding twelve, staring at the hand Dean was keeping purposefully away from his heart, doubt and fear darting out into Dean. "You don't have _any_ proof of that. We don't know _anything_ about these ghosts."

"No. Sam, _no_," he forestalled, holding up his hands, lightly wiggling his fingers like he had that morning. "I can tell the difference—remember? There is _nothing_ wrong with me. I'm fine and I'm not dying."

"What if it can come back?" Sam asked. "What if the reaper was only a temporary fix?"

"_No_," Dean repeated, trying to shove back Sam's worry, because there was something suspiciously like tears in Sam's eyes and Dean couldn't deal with seeing them there. "Sammy. I am fine. I'm_ fine_. Okay?" He waited as Sam's eyes peeled away from him, crown of his head rocking against the car. Waited until those same eyes stopped looking so damn young. Waited until Sam finally looked back at him and gave a wearily wary nod of not-acceptance, and took what he could.

He stood, pulling Sam off the gravel to his feet with careful grips under his arms, but realized he'd still hit one of his brother's bruises when Sam grimaced unconsciously at his pull, the expression almost making Dean let go and back off—like it was more than just a bruise, like he might really hurt him. But he didn't let go. He manhandled Sam into the passenger seat with careful precision, thinking, _we're both freakin' paranoid_, wondered if they'd ever stop being so.

* * *

Dean drove, stopping once to fish water bottles out of the backseat and make Sam drink, angling them back toward Charlie's cabin afterward even though part of him wanted to go farther—get them both as far away from Lander, the memories of Nebraska, and every thing else, as he possibly could.

But Sam was looking more human, no longer trembling, and the terrified look he'd been using to stare at Dean melted back into the one of more rational, careful, annoying worry he'd been sporting before they'd ever even gone back into that godforsaken canyon.

Dean would never voice it, but deep where his mind forced truth on him, he gave Sam's worry its due—not because he thought the reaper hadn't fully restored his heart, but because there was… something—a growing hollow ache in the center of his chest that felt… wrong.

But it was nothing, not enough to garner the amount of worry Sam was putting on it.

It was just a feeling.

Metaphysical.

A feeling he normally might attribute to messing up—doing something that got someone hurt, or _not_ doing something that got someone hurt. Or maybe more like the feeling he got when he was missing someone—reminiscent of those nights he couldn't sleep because his mind was too occupied with wondering where his dad might be, or what he might be doing—wondering if he was safe. Reminiscent of the way he'd wondered about Sam when he'd been absent. Reminiscent of the way he felt sometimes when he remembered his mother.

Next to him, Sam drained the water bottle in his grip, tossed it into the back with a sigh, and said aloud, "That was—just stupid."

Dean breathed out, almost laughing because the incident they'd just escaped from was so _nothing_ compared to how they'd both been so freakin' scared. Nothing compared to how they'd fled the canyon like the forces of hell were breathing down their necks.

It was Sam, though, that let loose the first snigger, releasing the tension they'd let seize them. For a full minute they laughed, but didn't banter, because things couldn't be _that _light—lingering buried fears and Sam's continued worry over Dean's almost dying still present between them.

When they fell silent again, after they'd pulled into the cabin's driveway—sitting, hesitating, idling the motor—Sam spoke. "Dean," he said, voice no longer shaking like it had.

"Yeah?" Dean answered hesitantly—careful, because Sam's voice was fully serious.

"You don't really want me to go back to school right now, do you?"

Dean tried hard not to grimace, or roll his eyes, or… anything. "No," he answered finally. Honest. Simple.

"I told you, after we ran into my friends, that I might get a little nostalgic but that I wouldn't run away to join a traveling law school in the middle of the night."

Dean's lips twitched, a careful reminiscent smile at the recounting of his own words. He wanted to punch Sam's arm, say something deflecting, but couldn't get himself to do either, so he nodded instead, and tried to appear unaffected, staring steadfastly out the front windshield instead of at his brother.

"And after Indiana… when I said… if we're going to see this through we'll do it together?"

Dean almost groaned. Sam's voice was becoming gentle, gentle in a way that meant he knew how real this really was to Dean, gentle also in a way that unfailingly encouraged Dean's defensive sarcasm—but again, he just nodded.

"I meant what I said. Both times."

Dean's eyes darted right and he couldn't get himself to look away when their gazes locked.

"I know, Sam," he answered after a moment. Certain, secure, because Sam needed him to be, even though Dean knew people changed, and knew that no matter what they said, people did a lot of things they never meant to do.

* * *

tbc


	16. Chapter 16

This chapter descends into a bit of cheese (but come on, embrace the cheese).

* * *

**Part 16**

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

When Dean finally twisted the key to turn off the Impala's engine, Sam felt a strange sort of empty in the absence of the car's deep hum, and wished for the first time that he and Dean had a rented room somewhere to go back to. Coming back to Charlie's cabin wasn't like going back to a motel, where it was just him and Dean and the no-need-for-pretense, which for Sam was suddenly the synonym for _home_.

After the day they'd just had… after all his mixed up feelings… Sam _wanted_ home.

He found himself thinking of his friends in ways he'd never thought of them before. He was thinking, staying with friends was _work_—subterfuge. He loved them. He did. Not in the way he loved Dean or Dad or _Jess_—but love, still the same.

He could remember a time when he'd felt so comfortable among them—bonded by late night study sessions, by minor daily crises with no parents around to take over, where they'd relied just on each other. Bonded by celebrating successes, cheering each other up or commiserating in misery. Bonded by food, and thoughtfulness, and the easy-going nature of everyday routines.

Bonded by _normal_.

With a tiny grunt of _weary_ he pushed open his door, watching—habit now—as Dean did the same.

The big white van Charlie was using to shuttle the group around sat boldly in the unclosed garage next to the car Sam associated with Jack, and an SUV Sam hadn't noticed before. Each vehicle's presence spoke of activity within.

People.

Sam started thinking maybe there was something to the anti-social philosophy he'd criticized Dean for back before they'd hit St. Louis.

He sighed, looking at the looming house. "Now what?" he asked Dean, not sure, precisely, _what_ he was asking but hoping Dean would. Dean—who was pulling the now basic black bag from the backseat, rolling his head as he did it… like he was trying to compensate for a stiff neck or strained muscles.

It was a broken record playing in Sam's head but Dean was _still_ pale.

There was a small chance, Sam allowed, that Dean's rough appearance _was_ his imagination, but he doubted it. There was a small chance that after everything they'd been through, Dean would now _never_ stop looking pale to him. And there was a small chance that there really was a ghost out there just amping up his fears. A _chance._ But Sam didn't believe it. It sounded good—plausible—it just wasn't enough to push back the raw fretting feeling tightening his stomach muscles whenever he looked at him.

He had to consciously hold himself back from taking the bag off Dean's shoulder.

But he did—hold himself back—because that thought _was_ ridiculous. Dean could carry a bag. He'd been capable of hauling them both out of the canyon fast enough. The effort used hadn't sparked a heart attack—hadn't caused him to collapse into a fit of not-breathing. So regardless of fears and ghosts and what they could or couldn't do, Dean was right. Dean was fine.

His heart was _fine_.

"_Sam."_

Sam blinked. Dean was in front of him, waving a hand before his face with a look of wry annoyance. "_Sam wears women's underwear_," Dean was further muttering, no real humor in it. Habit. Exasperation.

Sam realized he'd missed something. "What?"

"I _said_, now we work on getting some actual answers because we're still working blind and I don't like it." Dean recounted the words dully, monotone—bored and rushed—like he'd had to repeat them more than once, though Sam didn't think he'd been checked out all that long.

"Sorry, I was thinking," he defended.

"Yes, well, when you ask a question it's traditional to listen to the answer, and _yeah_, I could tell you were _thinking_," Dean grumbled, adjusting the bag at his shoulder, rolling his eyes and starting up the path to the door. "And don't tell me about what because I know that look and we've already gone over it." He shot a look over his shoulder, the glowering undertone understood by the way he walked.

Sam followed, protesting from habit, "You don't know what I was thinking."

"Hate to break this to you, Sam, but I don't have to be a genius, a psychic, or _you_ to know what you were thinking. Oh, wait, if I was psychic, or a genius, I would be you."

"Very funny."

They'd made it to the porch. Dean stepped onto it and turned, angling his face down with the sudden height advantage. "Seriously, Sam, you gotta stop treating me like I'm made of glass, man."

Sam wasn't ready for the abrupt change in conversational temperature. "I'm not," he defended—_and didn't we already resolve this conversation this morning?_

"Then you've gotta stop looking at me like I'll keel over at any time."

Sam shook his head. "You can't… you can't tell me to just stop worrying about you."

"I can if it's going to get us in trouble, or get in the way of what we have to do. You've got to ease up, Sam."

_Get us in trouble?_ Sam felt heat rise in his face, prick at his ears, felt himself getting angry all over again. He clenched his teeth together and fisted his hands to pull himself back from just _reacting_. Reminding himself Dean's mind didn't exactly work like his—reminding himself that Dean could fall behind and jump ahead so quickly Sam was left reeling.

He had the wary feeling Dean was actually going somewhere with this. He decided to accommodate, with reservation.

Picking carefully, Sam asked his next question, "And me easing up would be?"

"You easing up would be looking at this job like we would any other job. 'Cause you haven't really been doing that. You need to… we have to look at some of the facts… instead of… how you're _feeling_… if we're going to get this thing done." Dean was sounding nonchalant, but he had a point lurking somewhere, was taking Sam down a road he probably wouldn't like. "Spirits that linger… events that cause a _casserole_. Something like that is big—we should have been able to figure it out already. The south fork stuff is new—whatever happened to cause all this has to be new too. We must have missed something."

It sounded calm and reasonable, so why, thought Sam, could he _feel_ the catch? "And?" he prompted shortly.

"Aaand," Dean returned evenly, dropping his gaze, "you can't go back in the canyon again."

Sam rocked on his heels, opened and closed his mouth, frowned, squinted, felt the prickle of defense surge up his neck to mix with the pounding blood at the base of his skull. He tried to wrap his mind around what Dean was implying—that Sam would have to let _him_ go back into the canyon alone.

_Don't lose him now, son_.

The words his father had spoken in his dream rushed back, unbidden, and Sam found himself at a loss because Dean was right and oh so _wrong,_ all at the same time. It didn't have to make _sense_ for Sam to know it was real—to know there was _something_, to know letting Dean go, that them splitting up, was a very, very bad idea.

He unclenched his hands and had to stop himself from fisting them in Dean's jacket in case something suddenly tried to rip him away. He fought instead for a rational argument—for a way to calmly tell his brother there was no way in _hell_ he would be going _anywhere_ Sam couldn't.

Abruptly, the door behind Dean swung open, the light that spilled out from the house just a touch brighter than the pre-sunset they stood in. Sam had to squint for a minute to reconcile Garrett's image.

Garrett looked startled to see them. "Whoa, hey, you're back," he greeted, stepping out to join them. But he must have sensed the tension in air when he did because he shuffled back a step almost immediately. "Uh… sorry… I was just headed out to get… Am I interrupting something?"

"No." Sam shook his head and tried to relax his stance. Dean moved sideways and Sam stepped up to the porch at his side. "No," he continued, "we were just…" He had no explanation, and it was doubtful Garrett really wanted one. "Where are you going?" he asked instead.

Garrett waved a hand at the garage, indicating the SUV Sam hadn't recognized. "Nowhere," he grinned in answer. "We went shopping today and I'm bringing the rest of the food in from the rental car."

"You need help? What did you get?" Sam tried to sound interested—tried not to show his true attention was on Dean who had stepped carefully away from the conversation and into the house.

"Yeah, if you're willing," Garrett was saying, leading the way. "We got enough junk food to make Sara mad at us for a month. And Blake's cooking for us tonight—it'll be awesome."

Sam followed, trying to lose himself in his friend's chatter. Trying to be grateful there'd been no comment about his or Dean's semi-ragged appearance. Trying to be grateful and semi-confident that Dean, at least, wouldn't try to go back to the canyon alone _tonight_—not with how much they still didn't know. And he tried to be grateful he had time to come up with a rational argument against it.

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996 _

This time, there was no song or rhythm or trick Dean found to fool himself with. There was no relief, no grasp of memory, no anything to ease or outwit the hurt. He felt ripped, come apart, crumpled, and stretched, all at once.

The pain was blinding, or would have been—_if he'd been able to open his eyes enough to see_.

The pain was mind numbing—_and isn't that what he'd wanted?_

After awhile, he melted into the haze of it, unable to think or comprehend, unable to cry or whimper. He didn't know how much time passed.

There were voices.

Sometimes.

And sometimes not.

But even when they were there, he couldn't tell them apart, couldn't tell if they were happy or sad, worried or hopeful. He heard… snatches, the name of his brother or father, but their faces were suddenly elusive in his memory.

The song—the memory of his mother—that had been difficult to grasp before, was too far away now to offer him anything, too beyond energy and effort he didn't have. The fiery ache through his whole body sapped him, leaving him separated, yanked, ripped away and apart. Leaving nothing.

There were other sounds too. Sounds his mind couldn't process.

Even the occasional touch that came to him was too brief to help… too slight for Dean to register an absence of anything before what tortured him tumbled back. Because most of all there was just _that_—indescribable, uncontrollable, pain.

When a human weight finally—_mercifully_—settled on his chest, it took him a long time to recognize it as Sam's head. A long time to realize the pain was gone. And lost in the euphoric haze of that, an even longer time to register who Sam was. By the time he finally realized Sam was speaking to him he couldn't seem to pull the voice close enough to decipher what it was saying.

_Maybe his name—maybe something more?_

He wasn't sure it mattered.

All he was thinking was _stay_—_please stay please stay please stay please stay please stay_…

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

When Sam made his way down from their room into the kitchen he felt, still, ill prepared for the jarring cacophony of voices he encountered. Voices that turned subdued the moment he entered.

He paused in the entryway, trying to figure out what he'd walked into.

He spotted Dean immediately, leaning against the counter, far enough away from the others to be considered apart from them, holding a plate of half-eaten enchiladas, wearing a darkening expression. His eyes raked over Sam when he entered—the way they did when Dean was checking Sam for some kind of _hurt_, solicitous, _possessive _in a way—and Sam felt his confusion rise.

At the far end of the kitchen table, Garrett looked just as confused as he did.

Next to Garrett, Kim's eyes darted up, but weren't confused so much as they were—_worried?_ _Upset?_ Either way, her look made him glad he'd changed his shirt and jeans—hopefully making him appear less disheveled.

At the closer end of the table, Blake's eyes were narrowed—skittering toward Dean, toward Sam, then back down at his own meal. He looked—_sullen?_ _Smug?_

_Were Blake and Dean shooting barbs at each other again? _

Sam groaned. He _so_ did not _need_ this right now.

Next to Blake, Donna looked up. Her eyes caught his, shot to Dean and then away as though—_embarrassed_? Uncomfortable, Sam amended. Donna didn't really do embarrassed.

Finally, at the counter, nearest Dean, Sara was looking at Sam with open—_apology?_

Sam's eyes went back to Dean and he stepped in his direction, feeling protective, trying to puzzle out the tension, thinking maybe—_had Jack been talking? _And would an, 'Oh, by the way, Sam's brother is really here to investigate disappearing hikers,' be enough to spark what Sam felt in the room? Doubtful.

Dean's eyes were down, carefully blank. Besides the lingering hint of anger or frustration in his body language, his face was giving nothing.

Sam drew just close enough to nudge him with his elbow. There was something in Dean's posture…

Charlie's voice drifted in from without the kitchen's other side, cutting into the strained atmosphere, but holding a tension all its own. "_Jack, we're not camping tonight_," Sam heard. When he leaned forward a little he could just see Charlie and Jack through the arched opening at the kitchen's far end. He could see Jack talking but couldn't tell what he was saying. While Charlie's voice was audible, Jack's was not.

"_Yeah, okay. Relax, okay?_" Charlie gave Jack a brief pat on the shoulder, turned away, then slid into the kitchen and across the smooth wood floor in socked feet, dredging up a smile, somehow oblivious to the strain he'd classically disrupted. "Time for dessert!" he announced, gliding over to the fridge. "Sam, nice of you to finally join us—did you get food yet?"

Sam answered with a small negating headshake.

Next to him, Dean took a purposeful—controlled—bite of food. Sam double-checked his brother's stone profile then let his eyes drift past Charlie to the archway where he saw… Jack was watching them.

Jack met Sam's eyes with a sort of embarrassed _knowing_, blinked, then slipped away into whatever parts of the house he claimed as his own and Sam knew, with certainty, Jack hadn't been talking—not to Charlie, and not to his and Charlie's friends.

Whatever Sam had interrupted when he'd stepped into the kitchen a few moments ago was due to something else entirely.

With effort, he swallowed all the questions sticking in his throat and filed the incident away as something to ask Dean about as soon as they were alone, because with Charlie back, the atmosphere was already less charged. Like Charlie's positive countered everyone else's negative. And Sam found himself thinking instead about Jack and older brothers who _withheld_.

He had the feeling Jack had seen a lot more in that canyon the night Elly disappeared than he'd verbalized that afternoon. He had the feeling Jack had probably _seen_ what Elly saw, and was somehow trying to find an explanation that would prove neither one of them was crazy. Sam could give it to him—the explanation—but it wouldn't be one he'd likely accept.

He wondered if Jack would ever tell Charlie what happened, wondered if the man would ever admit, even to himself, that he'd encountered a ghost. "Isn't Jack going to eat something?" Sam found himself asking, looking to Charlie who was handing him a plate of dinner.

Other small conversations were picking up around them, the pressurized silence now nearly gone. Sam leaned back with his plate, copying Dean's stance—watching his brother take methodical bites.

"Nah, said he wasn't hungry—rough day at work, I think." Charlie's forehead crinkled for a moment, but he shrugged off whatever thoughts the action alluded to and moved to pull their dessert from one of the refrigerator shelves with flourish.

* * *

"You_ totally _should have been there, Sam." It was the fourth time Kim had said it.

Truth was Sam was feeling just the edge of jealousy—hearing his friends talk about what they'd done that day—but just the edge. And it wasn't so much what they'd done as the complete carefreeness of how it sounded. Sam couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd had that little to worry about.

Even now, with the way the light from without the kitchen's few windows was waning, he was throwing glances at Dean and wondering if he should go upstairs to grab the EMF meter. He held himself back only because the realization that following Sara around with the device while the group tried to chat would be a little too conspicuous.

Dean finally seemed relaxed enough. Or, at the very least, unconcerned. And they were together, which kept Sam's worry in check. Dean had even smiled at him a few times during the post-dessert conversation. Even throwing in some of his own comments—telling the group a safe enough story about Sam having thrown up in a public pool at age eight because he'd eaten 27 packets of Smarties in record time, and asking the group a few polite questions about what they'd done that day.

Sam felt himself calm as the conversation continued, thinking this really was okay, thinking he'd been too critical about the effort of being with his friends. He'd misjudged them—hadn't given them enough credit. Hadn't remembered how soothing they could be.

When Sara, the only one who hadn't eaten dessert, stood to collect the dishes and carry them to the sink, Sam felt compelled to help. She turned the water on, flipped it to warm, and they fell into an easy rhythm as the dishes in the sink were rinsed and stacked in the dishwasher. Sam smiled at how normal and familiar the simple task was, found himself enjoying it as soothing conversational tones continued behind them.

"Hey, Sam?" Sara said tentatively, when they were almost done, some seriousness in her voice Sam knew had nothing to do with possession.

"Yeah?" He grabbed a dishtowel to wipe his hands while she rinsed and stacked the last two plates.

"I just—" The water was still running, Sam reached to shut it off but Sara caught his wrist to stop him, letting him go just as quickly, looking embarrassed. "I just wanted to apologize."

Sam forgot the water. "Apologize?"

"For Blake," she hedged.

Sam blinked, pursing his lips, confused.

Sara cocked her head to the side, averting her eyes as she took the towel from Sam to dry her own hands. "For the way he's been treating your brother," she explained.

Instantly, Sam's eyes darted out to Dean. _What?_

"I know he's been a jerk, but… I think he's just… he's just…" She shut off the water. They stood in silence. Sara trying to find her next words. Sam backtracking in what he knew of Blake and Dean's interactions, wondering what he'd missed.

Everyone had heard Dean make the 'shortstop' comment at the end of the pool game. Classic, snarky Dean. Sam couldn't remember Blake having reciprocated. He'd heard them both make digging comments last night in the canyon. But they were just—digs. Competitive verbal sparring. Nothing Dean hadn't probably asked for, and certainly nothing Sam considered worthy of apology. Blake could be a dick sometimes, but honestly, so could Dean.

"The rest of us… well…" Sara finally looked at him again, still stumbling on her words. "I'm just… I'm glad we got the chance to see you again, Sam. It's been so long. And, I'm glad I got a chance to meet your brother. I'm glad he was there for you with… Jess," she finished, trailing off.

Still confused, Sam responded, "Yeah. Yeah, me too." He didn't know what else to say. Which probably didn't matter because Sara stepped away, back to the group, reclaiming the chair at Garrett's right. He lingered at the sink, wishing he'd been quick enough to ask Sara what she meant. Feeling out of sorts and hesitant when he let himself drift back to the table. Wanting to ask Dean…

"What about you? Did you get everything done in town you needed to?" Charlie was talking to his brother.

"Some," Dean answered.

Sam sat back in his chair at the table uncertainly. He didn't quite catch the fleeting look between Blake and Kim.

"And that was for work?" Blake asked. Sam watched, noticed the lift in Blake's eyebrows, the crinkle of arching skin in his forehead. He knew that look. Blake used the same look during their mock trials at Stanford—it was the look he got when he had a destination in mind and would most definitely be _leading the witness._

"Yeah, work," Sam cut in, before Dean could answer, feeling defensive for reasons still unknown, alert for whatever Sara had been talking about.

Blake glanced at Sam. "Your brother's work?"

Sam drew back, feeling something he couldn't place behind Blake's words. "Yeah," he answered. _Had Jack been talking after all?_

Blake's next question was back at Dean, "Sam tells me you're an investigative consultant?"

Sam wanted to cut in again but didn't—waiting to see what Dean might say. Dean could hold his own. He didn't _like_ Blake, Sam knew. And Dean could get overly snarky with people he didn't like, but he also knew when to… let bygones be bygones… _usually._ But watching him, Sam suddenly didn't think this was about snarkiness, because Dean's eyes had just turned slightly predatory.

"Something like that." His brother shrugged, rising from his stool, leaning casually back against the counter, elbows bent up so his hands could grip the granite lip at his hips.

"You go to _school_ for that?" Blake asked next.

This time, Sam had no trouble deciphering the tone that leaked out in Blake's voice—something like—_condescension_. The reaction was automatic—Sam bristled.

Dean didn't have a college education, but it didn't mean he was stupid, or that he couldn't have made it through college given half the chance. It might have been a little difficult for him. Not because the intelligence wasn't there but because Dean's intelligence was different, definitely not average, and way beyond what could be scrunched into scholastic labels.

His brother was creativity. His brother was _sense_ and senses. Dean was kinetic. Movement, taste, touch, sound, shape—an intrinsic awareness of subtlety, of motion and intent. Problem solving. The transfer of energies, ogive and take, of balance, of everything.

Dean was mechanical, Dean was a near genius at electronics—building and improving their various ghost hunting tools all the time. Constantly adapting and reinventing the things they used. If Sam had to guess between his father and brother as to who had come up with the rock salt in a shotgun solution, he'd guess Dean.

"My dad taught me what I need to know," Dean was saying simply, while Sam continued his list of internal evidence countering Blake's insinuation.

"Of course," Blake returned. "Sam said you two do the same thing. Your dad—military man, right?"

Dean spared Sam a brief look, but Sam couldn't begin to guess what Dean was thinking. "Marine," Dean answered.

"Right. Marines. Known for their great investigative skills."

Sam's hackles rose again, but didn't get the chance to speak. Blake was still talking. "He teach you how to fight?"

_What? _Seriously._ What!?_

"Enough to take care of myself," Dean responded casually. His hands had dropped from the counter. He'd stopped leaning back. The spark in his eyes bordered on dangerous.

Sam straightened, holding his breath, trying to think of a way to send this conversation in another direction. To everyone else in the room, it might still sound casual. Like the rest of his friends, Sam knew Blake was competitive. Unlike them, he knew how dangerous a challenged Dean could be. And if the implied attack on his family had Sam fuming, he was pretty sure Dean's emotions were darting off the chart.

"He teach you any martial arts?" Blake's next question.

"Some," Dean returned—it was the same tone of voice he'd used when he told Blake he played "a little" pool—the spark in his eyes now matched with a fleeting, hazardous grin.

"I grew up knowing a bit myself," said Blake. "Maybe we should spar sometime."

Sam cleared his throat warningly.

Dean's grin had just turned feral.

So he coughed again—loudly.

Dean ignored him, leaned forward, head dropping minusculy, like a wolf watching prey.

Sam readied himself to stand. To get between Dean and whatever he intended to attack, or maybe to hit Black himself. Honestly, it was a toss-up. But better him than Dean. Sam would at least pull his punch. But just as he started to rise, Dean's shoulders dropped—just enough—his face sliding to Sam and softening. "Maybe," he shrugged, deferring Blake's challenge.

Sam relaxed—slightly—releasing the small breath he'd been holding.

"You two could spar right now."

Sam's eyes shot toward the speaker. Honestly, he loved Charlie to death—a friend he could describe as a genuinely good guy, a guy genuinely nice to just about everyone—but maybe all that niceness made him a little naïve, otherwise he'd realize Sam was about to kill him.

"Now?" asked Garrett, responding to Charlie.

Sam suddenly felt like he was watching a train wreck.

"Yeah," Charlie shrugged easily. "My dad put a whole sparring gym thing in the back room on this floor. Pads, mats, gloves, headgear… everything."

Sam was unconsciously shaking his head, eyes darting warningly at his brother. To his relief, Dean's eyes held blessedly checked anger, maybe even a little humor at Sam's panic. And he was visually pulling himself back as he said, "I don't think so… maybe another time."

"Still feeling… _under the weather_," Blake sneered. An obvious slight, the ice and challenge so potent even Charlie caught onto it.

Instantly, Dean's feral smile was back.

Sam stood, stepped quickly over to catch Dean's elbow even though Dean hadn't moved a muscle, and answered for him. "_Yes_, actually," he asserted. "He's been sick… _seriously_ sick."

"But I'm better now," Dean spoke calmly, looking at Blake, removing his elbow from Sam's grip with a small ripple of muscle.

"Well perfect," Blake stood, gesturing widely, indicating the path toward the back of the house—toward Charlie's gym. "Let's get to it."

Dean moved forward after Blake and the others filed out, shaking off Sam's renewed grip, leaving him leaning against the kitchen wall, just he and Charlie in the room.

Charlie looked uncomfortably at Sam, apparently realizing just how unhelpful his suggestion had been. "I'm sure Blake will go easy on him," Charlie tried.

Sam sucked in the side of his cheek, hands slouching on his hips as he dropped his head back, thumping it lightly into the wall before returning his friend's gaze. "Not exactly what I'm worried about," he said, pushing off the wall to follow the rest.

* * *

The match was… short lived.

By the time Sam and Charlie made it into the room, Blake had on headgear, shin pads, had removed his shoes, and was dancing across the mats.

On the room's other side, Dean had finished unlacing his boots, and was stepping onto the mat in socks and no gear.

Sam tried, once more, catching up to him and pulling at his elbow warningly.

Dean shook him off. "Sorry, Sammy," he said without looking. "He's been asking for it."

"Dean."

"I won't hurt him… _much_."

Sam's eyes darted to Blake. In his mind he reheard the snide tone of Blake's digs and realized he couldn't stop Dean now if he tried, and maybe wouldn't mind if Dean _did_ hurt Blake—just a little.

Laughingly, Garrett tried to officiate, slight concern bleeding through his tone as he attempted to give the spar some semblance of rule.

A nice effort. A lost cause.

Blake came at Dean fast the first time. No warning. Dean barely moved, standing indifferently, deflecting the attack with a catch to Blake's wrist, while his other hand reached around to tap the back of Blake's head. Point—if Garrett's rules were to be followed.

Blake didn't wait before he came at Dean again, shooting out a leg in an attempt to sweep Dean from his casual stance. Once again, Dean didn't move—much. He caught Blake's leg and pulled him forward, deflected his attacking arm, and tapped a finger into his chest. Point again—again, if Garrett's rules were to be followed.

Blake didn't bother with legs when he came at Dean the third time and the two ended up in a flurried haze of locking and deflecting arms—a game Sam and Dean had practiced and played their whole lives. Sam was good at it—had stepped into a variation of it with not-Dean-the-shapeshifter and had ultimately lost. It was a game Sam could remember winning against his actual brother only four times. And one of those times he was pretty sure Dean let him.

So watching him with Blake, Sam knew Dean was _playing_ a game. The movements were second nature. They took no secondary thought or effort on Dean's part.

Blake though… Blake was _working_. Working so hard, he didn't realize it soon enough when he left himself open.

Sam bit down on his lip, knowing how much it hurt to take a hard palm to your sternum. Dean pulled the blow at the last second, making it more a push than a hit, knocking Blake to the mat before stepping away.

"Three points?" he questioned Garrett, who nodded, slightly dumbfounded. Dean looked down at Blake. "Guess I win." He turned around and walked off the mat. "I'm going to shower," he said when he brushed by Sam without making eye contact, bending to grab his boots before he left.

Sam watched his exit fleetingly, prepared to follow.

Charlie stopped him, clapping him on the back and grinning impishly. Looking relieved.

Charlie wasn't really the type to choose sides if his friends were fighting. He usually took the metaphorical stance of Switzerland or Sweden—but he had no problem choosing sides in a _contest. _Sam guessed Charlie was also expressing relief in the outcome since he'd suggested it without understanding the _more_ that was going on behind it. Which brought Sam back to the questions he still had. What was the _more_ behind it? What had started this? What—_exactly_—had Blake said to his brother that Sam had missed?

Sound from the room's other side caught their attention.

Redirecting his gaze, Sam almost laughed, watching Blake slap the mat and rip off his headgear. He didn't—laugh, that is. But Sara and Donna did—openly giggling as they handed Blake his shoes.

As Sam watched, Blake's eyes dragged over to him. For some reason, the moment they did, Sam felt a shadow of his own bristling anger return, knowing the conversation in the kitchen that had led to this was likely the type of thing Sara had been alluding to. He folded his arms, standing stiffly. It was silly, maybe, but he felt a little—betrayed, by Blake. Competitiveness aside, he honestly hadn't expected this type of thing from him. And when their eyes locked, he didn't pull his glower.

Oddly, _stupidly_, Blake seemed surprised to see it. "Sam," he started, standing and stepping closer.

Quickly, Sam waved whatever Blake was about to say away—glaring hard in the wake of silence that followed—and turned to leave the room the same way Dean had.

Sam was almost to the stairs when Donna caught up to him. "Hey," she said.

Obligingly, he stopped, watching the small smile play at the corner of her lips. He hadn't thought there were any bitter feelings from her breakup with Blake, especially since it was so long ago, but the obvious glee in her eyes at seeing him beaten betrayed… something of her feelings.

"Hey," he responded.

"I just wanted you to tell your brother… that was awesome." She was laughing openly now.

And though Sam knew he probably shouldn't think this way, he couldn't help his own grin. He'd never seen Blake as such a jerk before. He remembered vaguely—when Jess had first introduced them—that they hadn't hit it off right away. But they'd gotten to know each other, Sam had thought.

"Hope Blake laughs it off as easily as you do," he replied. He really didn't care if Blake did or not… but they were still in the same house, and Sam still didn't want things to escalate.

"Don't worry about Blake," Donna tempered. "He left—went into town to lick his wounds, probably. He'll be cooled off by the time he comes back. I think he's just been… I don't know, feeling territorial maybe." There was a flash of doubt in her eyes, clouding the statement, but it was gone before Sam could read it fully. "You guys didn't always see it, but he can be that way sometimes."

"Territorial against Dean?"

She shrugged, looking away. "I think he's always gotten territorial with new people in the mix. Some alpha male stupidness. And anyway… he _needs_ to be taught he's not the best at everything once in a while."

Sam nodded, appreciating her… _vindictiveness?_ That just sounded wrong. Appreciating her… _support_, he decided, editing the emotion carefully. "Thanks, Donna," he said.

"Sure. She smiled once more, softer this time, then left him, presumably drifting back to Charlie and the rest.

Sam took a moment, sinking to sit on the steps, drawing several slow breaths. It was like whiplash, dealing with the twists he hadn't expected the day to take. He stared in the direction Donna had gone. Blake would be out for a while. Sam could have gone back to the others too, could have followed her, but he wanted to check on Dean first.

Above him, he heard the vague and distant sound of a shower turning off and stood. He probably could and should stop worrying so much about his brother now. Blake hadn't been _all_ bad and Dean hadn't even broken a sweat. Which was just more evidence of his own paranoia. If something was still wrong with Dean's heart, a day like today would have laid him out flat.

He needed to begin accepting that Dean really was fine.

_Why was that so difficult?_

Up the stairs, Sam opened the door to their room, and froze for a full three seconds before he processed what he was seeing and bolted forward.

_Dean!_

Dean was on his back in the middle of the room, pale, eyes closed, knees jutting to his right. He was clad only in jeans, hair still damp from his shower, towel strung along the edge of the bed behind him. _Dammit_.

"Dean?" Sam knelt shakily, going straight for his brother's pulse with a hand he tried to keep from trembling. The dull throb was there, under his fingers. Sam wished that were enough to relieve him. "Dean?" he tried again.

Nothing.

This was too much. There was only so much a little brother could take.

He cupped Dean's face, slapping at it just a little. "Dean," he said louder. "Hey, Dean." He moved his fingers to the nerves at the base of Dean's neck, the point where neck met shoulder, remembering things his father'd taught about gauging unconsciousness and bringing people around. Tightly, he gripped the muscle and pinched.

Dean didn't so much as flinch.

_No no no no no!_ Sam racked a hand in his hair, stumbled to his feet and leapt back toward the open door. "JACK," he shouted. "JACK!"

* * *

tbc


	17. Chapter 17

**Part 17**

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006_

Sam wasn't sure when it happened, but at some point everything around him started to blur—blend into indistinct sounds that echoed too loud against suddenly sensitive ears, worming, making his skin itch. Sounds from indistinct expensive equipment beeping and clicking, squeaky shoes on old linoleum, voyeuristic hushed whispers drifting loud and soft, finding and working themselves into the tears of his façade—making him _sting_.

All of it mixing together to crowd crowd crowd.

The clinic's bright florescent lights didn't help—made the blur worse. Painful. Too white. Too jarring. Worsening the headache building behind his eyes—building itself to a level of pain Sam felt had no _right_ to come to him unless it brought one of those stupid visions with it—preferably one that would tell him what _exactly_ was wrong with Dean and include all the details of how to fix him so they wouldn't ever go through something like this again. Ever ever ever ever ever…

Not knowing what else to do—not _having_ anything else to do—he paced. Periodically squinted his eyes closed, and paced—back and forth, back and forth, back and forth—across the short expanse of hallway.

He'd been waiting now for—_felt like forever_.

No one had come to tell him anything.

The nurse at the admissions desk kept dropping her gaze whenever their eyes accidentally met. And no matter how Sam twisted his interpretation of it, he couldn't make himself believe her avoidance of his unspoken questions was a positive sign. He tried to stop looking in her direction, but his other options were few.

Behind him—the low voices of friends with looks of sympathy he didn't want to see.

Before him—the admissions nurse.

Beyond her—the abnormally large double doors that had swung open and closed much too quickly after Dean had been pushed through them, however long ago, followed by Jack who had reemerged from them only once, briefly, disappearing again before Sam could ask anything.

Jack, who hadn't accidentally met Sam's gaze once—hadn't looked at Sam directly since kneeling opposite him over Dean's sprawled form in the upstairs bedroom where Sam had found him.

_What happened?_

The memory of Jack's determined voice echoed in Sam's ears.

_Did he hit his head? _

_Is he allergic to anything?_

_Sam! Do you know what happened?_

Jack shooting question after question while the rest of the house occupants clustered in the doorway.

_You said he was sick recently, what was he sick with?_

Sam had frozen when that question was asked. He'd rocked back on his heels, looked at Dean's closed eyes and wondered—hoped for a moment—that he was just dreaming—everything suddenly too surreal to _be_ real.

But Jack had kept staring at him, and Sam hadn't woken up.

_His heart_, Sam had nearly whispered. And his voice almost broke on the phrase. _His damn heart_.

Silence dragged through the room at the end of his admission—his watching friends falling quiet and keenly still. And because he couldn't explain the rest of it—couldn't explain the preacher and his wife and the reaper—he'd stumbled trying to give more, choking on more than just panic. _He was electrocuted. He had a heart attack. They said… his heart was damaged, but… he got better… a doctor in Nebraska told us he was better… that it was… that it was a mistake._

Jack's eyes had crinkled a little, listening to Sam attentively while still holding two fingers to the pulse in Dean's throat, the perfect picture of calm urgency. He'd leaned over Dean somewhere in the midst of Sam's disjointed recounting—bent his head to Dean's chest, listening. And the look he'd tossed Sam when he sat back up was not the one Sam wanted to see because Jack's focused exterior had faltered a moment—for one moment he'd looked as resigned and tired as that _other_ doctor had been.

The _other_ doctor, whose voice was also echoing in Sam's ears, telling him Dean would die and there was nothing he could do—nothing anyone could do.

_Charlie, get the keys to that SUV you rented and pull it out front._

_Blake took it into town._

_Then grab my keys… by the door. You'll need to drive us. Garrett, get the door. Sam, come on._

Sam thought that point was maybe when the blurry haze had truly started—somewhere in the litany of Jack's quick orders.

_Jack is tall_, he remembered thinking. Not quite as tall as himself, but taller than Dean.

_Jack_, Sam also remembered thinking, _has the same type of build Dean has. _He's toned, fit, solid—slim, but not enough to be considered lanky. Still, Sam remembered being surprised when the man had hooked an arm under Dean's jean-clad knees, another under his bare shoulders, and, balancing carefully, had nearly flown with him down the stairs without tripping and without dropping him, because despite his diet, Dean's all muscle. He's _heavy_, and the only other person Sam's ever seen who was able to lift him that way is their father.

Not even Caleb had been able to do it—that time in Montana when Dean had somehow wrenched both his knees and was desperately trying to convince Caleb to let him go back for _Dad _before he had passed out from the smoke wafting over them—Caleb panicking because the ghost was bearing down on them and he couldn't get Dean up.

_Charlie drives like Dean_, is the next conscious thought Sam remembered having—his friend aptly turning the twenty minute drive into ten, and didn't come close to hitting a single deer on the dark canyon road. Even then, it'd felt too long, like they were too far away from help, but time was the first thing for Sam that had started to blur, the first thing that started not making sense. Of specifics, all he remembered was the tense quiet and the way Jack's eyes had reflected worry, even if his face hadn't.

"Sam?"

Sam pulled out of his thoughts, blinked at the too bright florescent lights and struggled to stay in the present, struggled to make himself focus on whoever was speaking to him. _Charlie_, he realized. Realized a second later that stopping the motion of pacing made him feel unsteady and he reached out to the wall quickly to keep his balance, feeling his body continue to vibrate with false energy.

"Maybe you should sit down," Charlie advised. Gently. The same way Sam remembered his friends speaking to him at Jess's funeral, which had only been bearable because Dean had been nearby… and wasn't now.

_I can't_, Sam almost responded but the words didn't make it past his throat and he felt traitorously grateful when Charlie took his arm and led him to a chair anyway—a chair firm and plastic and _cold_.

Sitting was better—but did nothing to stop the sense of spinning or to re-provide the secure sense of foundation Sam was absolutely certain he'd never _really_ lost before, and he knew with raw clarity it was _Dean _he needed to get it back. _Dean_, he'd always counted on. And _Dean_ who was suddenly gone gone gone.

_But not gone, 'cause he's just down the hall_, which appallingly made him feel so much farther.

He hated this—_waiting_.

_Somehow_, Sam thought, _it's worse this time_. Worse, because he'd already done this, and had never _ever_ wanted to do it again.

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996 _

It _stayed_.

The weight of Sam's head on Dean's chest.

Heavy and solid and _there_.

The longer it stayed, the more clarity returned. The less hazy his thoughts became, the more sharpened his awareness of his surroundings—pushing even the memories of pain into a vague background of something Dean could fear _later_.

He felt the IV still in his arm.

He felt… muddy exhaustion.

He felt insecure, dependent, and the weird mixture of hope and fear that came whenever life got complicated and there was no one to trust but Dad and Sam—a common, too familiar feeling that, even so, felt foreign in its intensity.

But Sam was there, his mind kept reminding him—a repeated litany of _Sam is here_ playing in the background of his thoughts. The sharp evenness of his little brother's breathing told him Sam was asleep and wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon.

The calm hums of benign noise surrounding them told him it was night again. It was night, and though Sammy was with him, Dean couldn't tell where their father was and that was… disturbing. Worrying, because it felt late, even if he couldn't be sure of the exact time. The misty memories Dean had of the day were too hazy to help him know what might be going on, or where his dad might be. He didn't know if there was trouble. And the more time he had to think about it the more concerning it became to him.

It was an absurd thought to wonder if their dad would have just left. Even for a minute—a bar or something. The previous night Dad had gone to get… stuff he needed, he'd said. He wouldn't have had to go anywhere again this soon. He wouldn't go anywhere else this soon. Not with Dean like he was and Sammy sleeping unprotected.

Dad wouldn't abandon them. Not without some protection—some _reassurance_.

_Right?_

Dean needed reassurance. Needed _assurance_ again. Needed his dad to rest a hand on his head and whisper, 'You'll wake up soon,' because his faith was faltering.

Just for a minute, he was starting to wonder if he really would.

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

When Jack finally made an appearance, and actually _looked_ at Sam again, his face was carefully blank, and Sam couldn't read his eyes.

"I'll take you to him," Jack said, before Sam could ask anything. No, 'He'll be okay.' No, 'He's awake and giving us hell.' Not even an, 'I'm sorry, it looks like it's terminal.' Just—'I'll take you to him.'

_What did that mean?_

"Is he—?"

"He seems to be okay," Jack stated, leading him through the big swinging doors into the hallway behind them, but there was something hidden in those words. Hesitation.

"Seems?"

"Yeah," Jack responded tiredly, offering no clarification, turning into a windowed room on their left, letting the door to the room shut behind them before pushing back the curtained partition hanging in their way, making Dean suddenly—there.

To Sam, Dean looked pretty much the same as he had lying on the floor in the upstairs room of Charlie's cabin—besides the steadily beating heart monitor, the IV, and the other equipment Sam recognized from their last experience with Dean in the hospital—which wasn't comforting. At least last time Dean had been _conscious_ when Sam had gone back to see him.

Dean's hair looked lighter than normal against the cloth of the pillow—but it'd always been that weird sort of blond blurred with brown color, changing shades in the whims of lighting—only truly light when it got truly long, and Dean hadn't let that happen for a while. Unconsciously Sam reached for it—brushing his knuckles against the darker whisks above Dean's ear.

The equipment attached to him here appeared slightly more sophisticated, but more haphazardly set up, than the ER he'd been in before. Sam assumed that somewhere within that thought was the faintly painted difference between clinic and hospital.

For a long moment Sam watched his brother breathe.

"He's stable, Sam," Jack said carefully, maybe reading something in Sam's face, but cautious in a way that made Sam wonder if Dean being stable was the only good news Jack had to offer. "We've run nearly every test we can," he continued. "His blood pressure was abnormally low when we got him here but… it's evened out—normal now. And his heart… seems to be okay."

"Seems?" Sam asked again.

"Every test we can do here checks out." Jack hesitated.

Sam called him on it. "What aren't you telling me?"

Jack sighed, turned, pulled a chair out from the wall and indicated Sam should sit.

Warily, Sam did.

"Look, I won't lie to you, but I also want you to understand that this isn't my area of expertise. When I was first listening to Dean's heart… it did sound like… it sounded like there was a murmur of some kind. But whatever I thought I heard… there's no trace of it now. But, sometimes those things aren't easy to hear. And the problem here… the thing is… everything else checks out, but he's not waking up. He should be waking up now."

Without warning Sam's nightmare came back to him—the conjured image of John Winchester poking at Dean with his toe and telling Sam, _There's just one problem… he won't wake up now. _The voice was so strong Sam almost looked over his shoulder to see if his dad might suddenly be there. Sam had no idea what it meant, if it meant _anything_—if it was even _real_. His few meaningful dreams had been _prophetic_ but not metaphorical, so he didn't know. He didn't _know, _but couldn't help feeling he somehow _should_.

His headache worsened, and Sam knew it was the amalgamation of those thoughts, and Dean's steadily sounding heart monitor that were suddenly doing him in beat by beat by beat… beat… beat.

"There are a couple things—options we have. I recommend, and Dr. Norris agrees, we can monitor him… continue to do… what we're doing. Like I said, he's stable, blood pressure's back up where it should be. We can watch, see if he comes out of it. If nothing changes we can look at transferring him to the hospital in Riverton. We don't have… there's more sophisticated equipment there, more extensive tests they could do on his heart, and if it's not his heart… the short of it is they can do more tests there than we can do here, if it comes to that."

Sam swallowed, tried to focus, tried to not let the words overwhelm him. He gave Jack a small nod.

"And it'd also… if you could get his medical records… it'd help if we knew what happened before."

Sam thought about that one, wondering if he'd be able to get the records listed under Dean's alias and somehow switch the name without getting them busted. He doubted it, but he'd do whatever he had to. Joshua, or Caleb, or someone, might be able to help. "I'll try to get them," he agreed.

Jack nodded and let out a breath, standing to leave. "I'll give you some time with him." He stepped softly toward the door.

"Jack?" Sam stopped him, feeling what he had to say next was necessary because here in Lander they are the Winchesters and couldn't pretend to be anything but. "Dean and I… we don't have insurance… right now." _Not to mention the fact that Dean wasn't legally alive_… but Sam wouldn't let himself think about that—ever again, if he could help it.

"It's a free clinic, Sam," Jack responded gently. "The nurses get paid but the doctors are volunteer—the rest comes from grants and donations. The hospital in Riverton's not but… there are programs. If we take that step… it'll be okay."

Sam dropped his eyes, pursing his lips, feeling his ears burn, tightly self-conscious. "Thanks."

Jack shuffled to leave, paused.

Sam looked up again, curious.

"It's not a medically based opinion," Jack started, with a tired half smile that graced his eyes just barely, "but I think he'll be okay. It might take him a minute, but I think he'll wake up and be just fine."

Sam blinked twice through the sudden haze of déjà vu. Like he was twelve years old again and listening to his father reassure him that his brother wasn't dying.

Jack slipped out, and it was only then that Sam remembered Jack had a fiancée who'd been unconscious for two days while those looking couldn't figure out what was wrong with her either.

And she had woken up, and been… _mostly_ okay.

* * *

A while later Sam looked up from Dean's face to see Charlie had slipped into the room and was talking to him, holding out two Advil in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other.

"Jack said… well, I thought… you looked achy," Charlie shrugged.

Sam swallowed the pills, but set the coffee down carefully on the small tabletop next to him, afraid he'd spill it the way his hands were occasionally shaking, and knowing with surety he didn't need caffeine overloading his system. He was having _no_ problems staying awake—like Dean's _unconscious_ had put his own _conscious_ into overdrive. "You don't need to stick around, Charlie."

"I wanted to," was the automatic response.

Sam believed him.

"Do you need anything? Need me to call anyone?" Charlie tried.

Sam started to shake his head, but despite his automatic negation, Charlie's question turned his thoughts to the cell phone in his pocket. He was surprised he had it, because in the rush to get Dean here he'd left behind just about everything else he might need, including his jacket and his dad's journal, both of which he suddenly wanted with him—badly.

He suddenly wanted to call his dad—went so far as to pull the phone from his pocket and let his fingers hover over the buttons that would dial him—but didn't, and wouldn't, and not just because of the _Please Turn Off All Cell Phones_ sign on the wall over Dean's head. It had taken three days for Sam to call his dad the last time. And because John Winchester had never called back, the fear of him not responding was even greater now, which was messed up on so many levels, because Sam wanted his father—wanted him there like he _hadn't_ all his time at Stanford.

There were other people he could call. People he'd called last time. Numbers so recently dialed they were still in his call log. But he couldn't bring himself to dial those either. Because Joshua or Caleb or even Pastor Jim couldn't tell him anything if Sam didn't have any information to give—couldn't tell them what went wrong in order to ask them how to fix it.

"Charlie?" The name was out his mouth before he could stop it.

Charlie stepped back to him in a flash. "Yeah?"

Sam couldn't believe he was about to ask what he was about to ask, but he _needed_ it and couldn't leave Dean. "In my brother's car… there's a journal… my dad's. It has… phone numbers and stuff." The phone numbers weren't why he wanted it, but he was getting better at the half-truths they'd always lived on but usually let Dean tell.

"I'll go get it," Charlie assured but Sam's readable reservation pulled him back. "Something else?"

Sam was thinking… maybe his laptop. He was thinking of things he could at least try to research and act on while he worried—thought even of his jacket because he was shivering despite efforts to hide it.

"Do you have the keys?" Charlie continued, seeming to read Sam's need. "I'll take Garrett with me and I can just drive the car back here. That way… you'll have whatever…" he trailed off.

Sam nodded, and couldn't believe he was about to let someone else drive Dean's car. "The keys are... my brother... his jacket pocket… leather jacket… in the room…" It was Sam's turn to let his voice trail off. Charlie's turn to nod. "Charlie," Sam stopped him once more when Charlie started away again, panic lacing his voice.

Charlie turned with lifted eyebrows, expectant, but Sam didn't know how to say what he wanted. Charlie aptly read the anxiety anyway. "I'll be careful with it. I swear. And I won't touch anything."

Sam blushed. "Sorry. It's just… sometimes I think that car is linked to Dean's soul."

"I'll be careful."

"Thanks."

Charlie went to the exit, stopping and coming back to him one more time, laying his own jacket wordlessly near the coffee at Sam's side.

When he was gone, Sam let his front crumble, gripping one hand around Dean's lower arm, the other tangling in his own hair. "Damn it, Dean. Stop doing this to me."

* * *

tbc

* * *

Thank you—all of you—for the awesomely wonderful feedback and support.


	18. Chapter 18

**Part 18**

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996 _

The absence of pain—held back by Sam's touch—pushed a clarity of surroundings on Dean that grew the longer the pain stayed gone. The waking lack of control was better than the hurt, but bothersome—pushing intensity into thoughts he couldn't quite control.

Like his body.

The hyper-awareness also clouded the weariness Dean felt building underneath—underneath all he couldn't control—underneath all he couldn't stop thinking about. The feeling of exhaustion mixed with _sharply awake_ was familiar in a way. _Disturbingly_ familiar in not quite the same way the pain had been. Dean recognized it as the precursor to a jittery shake that always descended on him whenever he forced himself to stay awake too long—a jittery shake that showed up whenever he'd pushed body and mind farther than he should have been able to.

He wondered if the jittery part would actually come, wondered if his body would allow minute trembling when it wouldn't allow anything else—when it wouldn't even allow this _unconsciousness_ to become sleep.

_Where is Dad?_

The question kept coming to his mind without answer—over and over. Nothing he could hear, or smell, or feel, gave him a clue.

He had no way of gauging the passage of time except the feeling in his gut that told him it was long past midnight and the long even counts of Sam's breathing. Even and constant and _there_. As he thought it, Sammy's breathing hitched—head shifting.

Dean felt the flash of fear like a force—an unwelcome grip on his heart, an unwelcome shock spiking fire through his mind, making him feel momentarily light, and crushable.

Sam's head settled back where it was almost as quickly as it left.

The fear didn't. It pulsed through him dangerously—in rough time with the tight beats of his heart, making his toes throb for several long seconds before going away. In the wake of it, he started a more literal count of the ins and outs of Sammy's air.

Distraction.

Something benign to put his mind to—mark the passing minutes.

On breath forty-seven the wonder of his dad's whereabouts almost won out.

_Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one._

It was still just him and Sammy in the room. Dean could hear—_everything_. He couldn't hear Dad.

_Fifty-two. Did I skip one? Fifty-three_.

Dad could be anywhere. Sam probably knew. Dad probably told him. Dean should have heard information like that. But he'd missed a lot during the earlier haze. And it wasn't like he could actually ask. Or somehow _will_ Sam to wake up and tell him.

Dad might have gone into town. Or just gone for a drive. Dean quickly discounted those—or didn't _discount_ exactly, just stopped thinking about—because either scenario put his father unnecessarily _away_.

_And Dad wouldn't do that_.

If Dean was awake—yes, he would. Had done. Many times. Had left them alone and gone much farther than a drive into town. For almost as long as Dean could remember his dad had trusted the two of them to be alone. Or if trust was too strong a word—had _allowed_—allowed out of necessity and caused for it to happen. Disappeared to hunt or whatever… while Dean took care of Sam. Followed Dad's instructions. Hoped for John's return.

Sometimes the absences were unexpected—a set of coordinates scrawled on a blank piece of paper taped to the front door when they got home from school. Sometimes John added the number of days he thought he'd be gone, sometimes he added the name and phone number of whichever one of their contacts was closest—telling Dean who to call first if John stayed gone too long, or they needed help for whatever reason.

John always came back.

Dean always worried about the one day he maybe wouldn't.

Even so, he couldn't imagine his father doing that _now_ and hated he'd even thought it. Only twice had John ever left them when one of his sons wasn't in good health, or good enough health. Both had been emergency situations. And Dean had not been unconscious. So he wouldn't do that. _Not now_.

Sammy drew a sudden, extra loud breath of air, head rocking, but not lifting. Dean waited, then started counting again—his own breaths as well as Sam's. It was probably just his imagination, but he thought maybe the rhythm they struck together was a little closer than it'd been last night. And once again, couldn't explain why it mattered.

A loud whir clicked over their soft breathing—the vent kicking in.

_Dad could be just outside in the truck—researching._

It was an obvious answer. Dean didn't know why he hadn't thought of it before. His dad would be out there where he could read and write and research without the risk of waking him and Sammy up—or _Sammy_ anyway. It's not like Dad hadn't done that before. He retreated to the car often—a habit born out of limited and closely shared space.

The Impala had doubled as office and car for years before they'd had to leave it in that storage facility in South Dakota four months ago. John kept telling Dean they'd take some time soon—take a brake from hunting—so the two of them could fix the car back up. Restore it. Get it back on the road.

Dean was starting to worry if they ever would.

Dad didn't do the sit-outside thing as often in the truck. Dean wasn't sure why—if maybe it just wasn't as comfortable or whatever—but he pictured his dad out there now, hunched in the front seat, making notes in his journal, books stacked up on the passenger side. It felt right. And it was better than thinking his dad was elsewhere.

Sam's breathing deepened, evidenced by the occasional sort of whistling sound sliding briefly through his nose. Dean had always meant to record that because Sam never believed him about it.

_'Normal people snore. Sam Winchester whistles,'_ Dean had teased, just over a month ago. Usually quick to rise to the bait and obligingly push back, Dean was surprised when Sammy ignored him instead—resolute and closed off after Dean made the comment, closed off in a way he'd never been with Dean before. Dean concluded later, maybe Sam had been hurt by it—age twelve wasn't exactly the age where kids embraced uniqueness. And they had uniqueness to spades. Sammy didn't need more to contend with.

Dean was different—with his peers anyway. Their approval had never mattered to him as much, which left him to be alternately mocked and rejected or become the status quo his peers envied or strived for—sometimes a mixture of both. It didn't matter to him—not really. Not if he didn't think about it. Really.

It mattered to Sam. Whistling through his nose in sleep—no matter how minor a quirk—_mattered_ to Sam.

_And why am I thinking about this now?_

The whistling continued. Dean counted those now, instead of the breaths, till Sam's head rocked left and they stopped.

_Where is Dad?_

A heavy shuffle sounded in the distance—_boots on pavement._ The low sound of his father's voice followed the shuffle. The voice was muffled—far, but not too far. Dean tried to picture where it was coming from and with little effort imagined his dad pacing outside the small rented cabin's front windows. He heard no one else's voice and realized his dad had probably dragged the cord under the door and was talking on the phone. He tried to filter out Sam's breathing—tried to catch the words his dad was saying—was able to catch some of it but periodically lost the flow when his dad either turned around or paced away from the room.

From what Dean did catch, he was pretty sure he was the subject. "_…less than a day now… I know… but what if we're wrong… you're wrong… he… wake up before the deadline… there has to be… more… what... can do… Dean… I couldn't…"_

The words were worried in a way that made Dean's insides feel rigid. _What deadline? There was a deadline? Did he have a deadline? What did that mean? What was he supposed to do?_

His father never expressed worry like that, being a firm believer that calm heads made calm decisions and calm leaders had calm soldiers. Dad worried—yes. Like _that_—no. And who was his dad talking to? Pastor Jim?

"_I should have made him take the car and go… I should have made him get the hell out… I know you… you said it wouldn't make a difference… I know… but what if he doesn't?"_

Sammy's head shifted. Dean hadn't realized until then how his brother's breathing had changed, a small tremble behind it. Sam was awake—awake and listening. He stayed still at first then shifted. The bed shook as Sam rolled over, twisting his body till he was presumably on his stomach—tucked chin digging into Dean's ribs. Dean built a mental picture of Sammy's dark eyes peeking over him through the room's expanse of shadows to their father's pacing silhouette, hunkered down like a soldier blinking out of a foxhole, hoping to stay unnoticed by the enemy.

For a moment the image was so real he wondered if he had his eyes open.

He didn't, but he believed in the image anyway, and hated the worry he could imagine building in Sam's eyes. Felt it manifested when his brother's hand fisted in his t-shirt and his chin dug into his ribs a little harder.

There was nothing he could do about it—nothing he could do to reassure Sam he would be fine and wake up like Dad originally told them. Just as Sam couldn't reassure Dean that he or Dad would stay with him until he did. Sam couldn't promise to stay and keep him grounded so the pain would stay gone. How could he when he didn't know? When neither of them knew?

How could Dean promise it would all turn out okay when he couldn't even blink?

The cabin door clicked open—softly. No bolt, no chain, no codeword. His father really had been just outside.

Dean listened, following the quiet steps as John came in and moved furtively about the room.

Sam's head turned sideways, feigning sleep.

The steps came closer. A soft grip caught Dean's arm—Dad checking the IV. The familiar hand to his chest followed, resting heavy. Despite the anxiety in the gesture, it felt like extra calm seeping into him as John checked his breathing. Then the hand left him. In its wake came the dragging sound of wood on carpet—a chair being moved closer. A scattering of cloth rubbing together, buried under the sound of creaking wood and joints, told him his father had sat down—close.

The hand came back—to his shoulder, traced his ear, moved to his forehead and rubbed back down through his hair, the last motion repeated, soft and gruff, careful fear leaking underneath the smooth rhythm. Dean sensed it, and felt both guilty and grateful to have it there. John's hand moved back to his forehead, repeating the motions—silence and emotion dragging behind the continued gesture.

Then, John again started to hum. _Little Bird_—mom's song—just like before.

It was a weird thing, Dean thought, to hear his father use his voice that way. It made him not mind so much being still—made him think, if he did move—if he could move—the voice would go away. So though the rest of this totally _sucked_… he savored this part, clutching at the rare experience like gold.

Sammy too had gone completely still. He was listening also—quietly awake and listening, pulling something from the rare experience as well. So Dean figured it cost his little brother when he broke the guise and whispered out a hesitant, "_Dad?_" sometime later, revealing he was awake and had something important enough on his mind to risk breaking the moment.

Abruptly, the humming stopped. "Yeah, champ?"

"Are you worried… for Dean?"

Dean heard his father's swallow and the sudden stop motion in his breathing.

_Don't start fighting again,_ Dean thought. _Please don't start fighting again._

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm worried for Dean."

_Don't fight._

"Me too," said Sam, in a quiet voice—gentle, if not for the catch underneath it—like Sam was trying to _see _their dad and understand.

"I know."

A fraction of the tension in Dean's mind abated.

"But you still think… you still think he'll wake up?" Sammy sounded young again. Dean guessed it was the age—since turning twelve Sammy could go from _grown up_ to _little boy_ in less time than Dean could blink.

Their father shifted, and the motion of tracing Dean's ear began again.

"He will, Sam, but… I still worry."

Dean felt another touch of tension ease. There was worry but assurance in his father's voice. This would end. He would wake up. It would end.

It _would_ end.

But did he… did he have a _deadline? Was he supposed to be doing something to make sure he woke up before the deadline came? When was the deadline?_

"Okay," Sam replied softly—slowly, like he was testing the trust he'd let out with the word.

Silence.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't hate you."

Dean listened as John swallowed again and when his voice finally answered, there were emotions in it Dean had never heard before and would never be able to describe later. "I know, kiddo. I know."

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

Despite what Charlie told Sam, he took more than just Garrett with him when he left—took with him everyone but Kim, who stayed behind in case Sam needed something, or in case something changed with Dean. And Jack—obviously. Jack wouldn't be leaving.

There wasn't much point in the rest of them staying and therefore no reason for Garrett to drive the van back. There wasn't anything they could do—and they'd be more useful in the long run if at least some of them could get some sleep.

Charlie knew he wouldn't be able to, but the others could try—should try.

He'd drop them off, leave the van with the others so they could come back in the morning, then take Sam his brother's car and wait with him. It wasn't much, but it was something.

No one talked during the drive back. There… wasn't much to say. Charlie's mind drifted as he drove—couldn't help thinking what a weird few days it'd been.

When they'd run into Sam and his brother at the Oxbow, it had felt to Charlie like Sam had been away from them forever, and at the same time felt like he'd been talking to Sam only yesterday—standing in the library at Stanford, the two of them worrying about Professor Ford's midterm. Funny how what life threw at you was never quite what you expected.

As bleak as things seemed, Charlie couldn't help but think there was something—some _purpose_ behind it. Because it was funny where their lives could take them—funny how easily paths intersected and crossed. Maybe they'd been meant to run into Sam, meant to be there, so that despite all Sam was going through, he at least didn't have to be alone.

Charlie didn't know what he thought about God and all that but… regardless, he was glad they'd come here instead of going down to Mexico like they'd talked about. And Jack. Jack being here was good too. Fortuitous. It was the optimist in him, Donna would say, but she'd look at him and listen and not make fun of his thoughts whether she agreed with them or not. Besides, she had her own beliefs about luck, and family.

When they pulled up to the cabin, Charlie could see Blake doing a sort of frustrated pace in front of the house, clearly worried or aggravated to have come back to find everyone gone. Seeing him, Charlie felt more than saw Donna scowl beside him. He'd never asked her what he'd missed that led up to Dean and Blake's sparring match, but knew he'd missed something—had the feeling he'd _been_ missing something. Although, with everything else that happened, he wasn't sure it mattered anymore.

Donna clearly thought differently.

"Where the hell did you guys go?" Blake barked.

"Emergency clinic," Donna shot, the answer laced with lack of patience.

"What? Why?"

Sara's tired voice slid in before Donna's blunt could get nasty. "After you left… probably _when_ you left… Sam's brother collapsed. He wouldn't wake up so," Sara waved a hand at Charlie, "Charlie and Jack took him in. We followed."

"Yeah," added Charlie. "In fact, I'm surprised we didn't pass you getting there—we we're driving fast enough."

"I went the other way—drove up to the viewpoint to look around. Do they know what's wrong with him?"

"Not yet. But Sam said—I guess a bit ago Dean had some trouble with his heart," Garrett hedged. "But we don't really know anything. He just… he hasn't woken up. Sam's still down there. The rest of us—wasn't much more we could do than wait."

Charlie watched Blake's face, not sure what he was looking for. The look he did see was unreadable. "Kim stayed behind in case Sam needs something. And I'm heading back. I told Sam I'd bring him his brother's car."

Blake looked like he was processing. "I can take the car down," he volunteered after a moment, glancing around at them before his eyes settled on Charlie. "Sam should know… I want to talk to Sam anyway." He held out his hand for keys Charlie didn't have.

Charlie stepped back anyway. "Sorry, man, I promised Sam I'd do it myself."

"Sam's not going to care—and it'd be easier if I did it. You could stay here and get some rest with the others—come back for us in the morning. No point all of us being down there."

"Maybe," Charlie lifted his shoulders in a shrug. It sounded logical but— "But I promised, and Sam was kinda intense about it. I don't want to give him something else to worry about."

"Besides, Charlie wouldn't rest even if he did stay," Donna spoke, the bite gone out of her voice, and he appreciated the understanding look she sent his way.

"Yeah… yeah, okay whatever," Blake agreed, dropping his hand.

"I should get going," Charlie said.

Donna moved onto the porch and opened the front door for the rest of them to file inside.

Charlie jogged past her, going straight up the stairs to find Dean's keys and jacket.

The jacket was an easy find, set over the back of the chair near the desk. He double checked the keys were in the pocket and decided he'd bring both. Bending the jacket over his forearm, he looked around for anything else Sam might need or want. Nothing jumped out at him.

He was almost out the door when a small whirring squawk stopped him. At first he couldn't tell where it was coming from, but sweeping his eyes left to right, spotted the object he thought was making the sound and moved over to investigate.

The thing was set on top of a black bag resting on the dresser near the door—a small electronic device he couldn't figure. It had an antenna, like a radio, and bore a vague resemblance to an old time Walkman. And though no music was coming out of it, it continued to crackle and hum as he inspected it—a row of tiny lights across the top sparking on and off every few seconds.

He picked it up gingerly, turning it over in his hands, fiddling with it for a second to see if he could find an off button.

He didn't.

_Strange_, he shrugged, giving up, carefully setting it back where he'd found it.

Donna was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs when he went back down, the others having presumably disappeared into various bedrooms. "Call us if you need anything, or if anything changes," she told him, walking with him to the front door.

"I will," he agreed, and gave her a quick peck and a _see you soon_ hug that lasted just a bit longer than most. "Get some sleep, okay? I'll call."

Her fingers rubbed the back of his neck an extra moment before she stepped away and nodded.

* * *

tbc


	19. Chapter 19

Thank you geminigrl11 and Faith for the excellent beta work.

* * *

**Part 19**

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

When Charlie stepped into the Impala, he did it carefully, closed the door gently—cautious even doing that from the way Sam had worried about him driving it. But he thought he could understand Sam's paranoia because the second he slipped into the car he was caught with the feeling he'd just invaded something private—personal—had made his way into a sacred-something not normally shared.

Like he'd just found the uber-secret Bat Cave… or… _something_.

The car itself gave off a vibe—like it could tell stories all its own.

The scent of the car too, was distinct—a mixture of leather and eucalyptus… and something else… something that made Charlie think of hard rain on pavement. Salt on skin after a cold swim in the ocean. New sawdust or turned woodchips.

Freshly dug earth.

Elusively familiar, whatever it was.

The car looked and felt _lived in_. The over-shirt Sam had worn the night they'd run into him was slung over one side of the bench seat. A navy zip-up sweatshirt mashed below it. Old books, a plastic wrapped box of water bottles, and two poorly folded towels stocked the floor behind him. The journal Sam mentioned rested neatly in the middle of the front seat, less than a foot from Charlie's hip.

He shook himself and laughed into the silence at the tiny spec of jealousy that seized him… jealousy from the _closeness_ it all implied.

He'd have to tell Sam, one of these days—one of these days when his brother was no longer residing unconscious in an emergency clinic and it could be said without the blatant sound of disrespect—that he envied him. Envied all the little things in Sam's life that seemed so much more personal and meaningful than all the little things Charlie had in his.

Sam would laugh at him. He knew him well enough to know that—knew Sam's childhood had probably been the opposite of his own in so many ways. Knew from the vague hints Sam had given while they'd been in school together that there were issues in Sam's past—wounds. Wounds that ran deep.

And yet, the envy was still there.

Charlie turned the key. The classic car started with a low rumbling hum that sent a thrill to his heart, and he reached out carefully to shift it into reverse.

A jarring tap on the passenger side window startled him and his eyes darted right to see Blake's solemn face peering through the glass.

The door opened, and Blake slipped in, pushing the slung shirt and wadded sweatshirt over as he sat. "I want to come," he said, shrugging into Charlie's questioning look. "I don't want Sam to think I was… Look, I just want to come, okay?"

Charlie nodded as Blake shut the door.

There was silence after that.

He and Blake didn't spend a lot of one on one together time—not since Charlie started dating Blake's ex-girlfriend. Though Blake had never shown any hard feelings and had been the one to break up with Donna in the first place, Charlie was sensitive to the situation. Still, after a few minutes of the silence that carried them down to the main road, Charlie couldn't help but ask, "What exactly were you and Dean fighting about… before all of this?"

Blake's eyes slid over, expression shuttered and unreadable. "I didn't know the guy had a heart condition."

"Right, I know. I didn't mean that. I just meant… before you two were sparring… were you fighting about something else?"

"Not really," Blake shrugged. "I was just asking him questions."

"What kind of questions?"

Now Blake looked annoyed. Charlie almost backed off, but after a moment, Blake answered, "I was asking him questions about Sam. I mean, come on, Charlie, don't you think it's funny that Sam barely spoke a word about this guy while he was at Stanford and then just took off with him on some road trip? And Dean knows next to nothing about Sam and Jess. I was just trying to get more information, help Sam out a little."

Charlie thought about that. It wasn't unlike Blake—when there was a problem or emergency among them, Blake was usually in the thick of it. But since when had they set a quota for how much they had to talk about their families? It's not like Charlie talked about his all that often. "Is this because Kim suggested Dean was being controlling? Because Kim thinks stuff like that all the time. She thought it about Jess too, after Sam started going out with her. But she was just being jealous. She gets that way sometimes. It doesn't make it true."

"No," Blake said tiredly, something underneath the word that seemed like more than annoyance. "I know how Kim can be. But this isn't about her being paranoid or jealous. She saw Dean fighting with Sam this morning, said something didn't look right. I was just trying to get the full picture. I mean Sam's our friend and Jess was like a sister to me. She was close with you too. If something is up with Sam's family or his brother... or whatever... then we should help. And can you honestly say… I mean… his brother doesn't seem too interested in Sam getting back to his future."

"His brother is unconscious right now," Charlie reminded, feeling unduly defensive—and wasn't sure if it was for Sam's sake or the image he wanted to stay jealous of.

Blake stopped. "I know."

Charlie hesitated, wondering what Blake might be thinking. "I'm sure Sam's not blaming you," he hedged.

Blake shot him a look, like he hadn't been thinking that at all.

Charlie closed his mouth, drew back, and stopped trying to guess what Blake might be thinking, or what questions Blake might have been asking Dean.

They finished the drive in silence.

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

Sam felt better holding the journal, clutching both it and the keys Charlie pressed into his hands like lifelines. He felt better having something to do—something to focus on.

It didn't lessen the worry or the fear, or take the unhealthy look out of Dean's unconscious pallor, but it pushed it down a notch, pushed it to the background while he concentrated on _doing_. Researching. Finding out. Paging through their dad's journal yet again, seeking any and all references to 1996, to Lander, to latchers, casseroles, reapers, and anything else this could be touched with.

He didn't know what Dean's current _situation_ was caused by—and couldn't even discount, or forget, the heart murmur Jack _thought_ he'd heard. But there were things in his control and things that weren't—things he could do and things he _couldn't._ If it was ghost related, if it was related to their past here, then he could do something about it, and wasn't about to let himself think differently.

The focus that settled in his brain reminded him of preparing for hunts as a youth—his dad dropping him off in front of countless libraries, or setting him up with a notepad and a pile of books in whatever motel or rented space they lived in.

_"Okay, Sam, what's your objective?"_

The answer always varied. The semantics stayed the same.

_"To find any references to water wraiths in Connecticut." _

_"To figure out if there were any similar deaths while the Whites lived in the Bradshaw house." _

_"To see if the recorded history matches the local accounts of the fire, sir."_

The lesson: Know what you are looking for, and hit the books.

Sitting in the hard chair near the monitors hooked to Dean, Sam heard again his dad's voice, his routine question, like his father was suddenly haunting him—not by any sort of supernatural presence, but by his absence, by a voice reaching out from Sam's memories and the echoes of his dream.

_"Sam, what's your objective?"_

"To make Dean okay," Sam whispered aloud. _My objective is to make Dean okay_. He opened the journal—flipped first to the reference to casseroles, reviewed it and found it too oblique to give any more insight than it already had. He found next the reference to latchers Dean had already told him about. It was indirect and infuriatingly unhelpful_—"1996, Lander, Wyoming: Ghost is a latcher—salt and burn." _Nothing more. Wonderful—_Thanks, Dad._

The third find took longer. Eyes burning, tinged with a blur whenever he blinked, Sam flipped sections, going from the indexed section back to the journal's front, scanning each page with careful precision. Laying the book on the bed near Dean's knee, he shifted himself forward, head in his hands as he searched.

The handwriting was worse in the front section and harder to make sense of. It held some of the more personal accounts from their father, which maybe meant the handwriting was worse because it _was_ personal—personal always feeling harder to write, harder to read—and Sam almost missed the tightly scrawled _1996_ in the middle of a page hidden by two paper-clipped notes relating to something else entirely.

He stopped, shifted the paperclips, and traced his finger over the lines scribbled beneath.

_I called Missouri. The first time in years… _

Sam sat up straight, sucking in air, and couldn't help the accusing glance he sent to Dean's unconscious face—_bastard._ Missouri. Dean had to have read this already and not said anything. Maybe it hadn't been significant at the time but Dean could have said _something_.

Dad had called Missouri.

Sam's heart started to pound and his vision swam for a second. He'd been sitting in the same position for too long, nerves too tight to suddenly start moving around. But… his dad had called Missouri… which meant Sam had someone he could call too.

With a deep breath he focused back on the page to read the rest of the entry, all while keeping a tight grip on Dean's knee, like holding on to him would add power to the answer he hoped he was about to read.

…_I don't want to take Dean with me but the suggestion he stay behind seems to make things worse. We argued. Unusual because he argues with me so rarely. I've been hard on him. Too hard. All of which reinforces how dangerous this ghost could be to him—the way it latches on to what we don't know is even there. But if capable of latching—it'd just as easily reach him here as there. It's a hard thing to admit to myself but we'll lose more if I don't. Mike used to tell me—I hate to lose. That hasn't changed._

He read the entry twice before reaching into his pocket for his cell phone and rocking to his feet—coming face to face with the sign warning against cell phone use. He growled, glancing down at Dean. "I'll be right back," he whispered, patting Dean's knee again, not wanting to leave, just in case something changed.

Nothing _had_ changed—all night—not since Jack had let him in here. There was no reason to think it would now, but… his hand tightened on the fabric over Dean's leg, and he couldn't help thinking his unmoving brother looked cold. He pulled the leather jacket Charlie had brought from end of the bed and spread it over Dean's legs, feeling stupid about it, thinking about what Dean would say if he were awake.

"I'll be right back, Dean," he repeated, and forced himself step after step to make his way outside.

* * *

"Can we talk for a second?"

Sam wasn't that surprised to see Blake in the waiting room. Maybe he would have been, if he'd been thinking about it, but his mind was on other things—calling Missouri, for one, getting his laptop for another, and maybe calling Caleb after all because if Missouri didn't know about latchers, maybe Caleb would. "Not really a great time," Sam answered, feeling a touch of vertigo as the automatic doors opened to let them out into the cool air of the parking lot.

"I know." Blake shrugged, falling into step with him—he was almost as tall as Sam, maybe just an inch shorter. "I just wanted to say… I never meant for this to happen."

"It's not your fault," Sam said automatically. Blake was a jerk—but not responsible. And it was probably something innate in Sam that made him say so because really, at the moment, he didn't care. Dean was inside. Dean was unconscious. He wanted to get back to Dean.

He spotted the Impala, parked safely right under a street lamp, and moved in its direction. His hand shook slightly as he gripped the keys, ready to unlock the trunk.

"Let me grab that, man." Blake reached for his hand.

Sam rocked back, rubbed an eye with his abruptly free hand, and watched Blake twist the key in the lock.

He didn't say thanks.

"Look, Sam, I'm sorry. Really. I wasn't purposely trying to pick a fight with your brother. It just sort of… escalated. And I didn't know he was really sick."

"I said it's not your fault." He moved forward as the trunk lid swung upward, blocking Blake from pulling out the laptop he reached for, grateful for the canvas tarp covering the weapons.

"I get that." Blake hesitated. "I just wanted you to know—"

"I need to make a few phone calls," Sam cut him off.

Blake stepped back, shrugging his shoulders, lips drawn into a frown. The serious expression reminded Sam of the patient way Blake had gone over the LSAT prep notes with him, the frown he'd worn when Donna and Sara had borrowed his car and gotten stranded when the spark plugs blew and he and Sam drove eighty-four miles in the middle of the night to go get them. Thinking about it, Sam felt—something. Not _bad_ exactly but… he tried to take the edge out of his voice when he said, "I need a few minutes alone, okay?"

"Sure," Blake conceded, backing off. "Sure."

* * *

_Outside, Lander, Wyoming, 1996 _

"Sammy? How 'bout you go outside for a while—get some air."

Dean sensed the frustration just beneath John's voice.

Sammy hadn't eaten breakfast that morning—had said he wasn't hungry and John hadn't pushed, hadn't pulled out the _You never know what can happen between now and your next meal_ speech.

Dean hated the speech but it didn't comfort him to suddenly not hear it where he expected to. If he'd heard it, it would mean things were at least somewhere in the realm of normal—that whatever had been done to him to keep him like this wasn't going to alter the few things Dean counted on.

Right now he wanted to be able to predict things. The day had already been a stop-motion continuance of flooding, mind blowing pain and abrupt calm—touch leaving him when he didn't expect it, coming back just before he gave up on having it again—making him feel mixed up, messed up, bone weary, and rawly, grotesquely, nervous.

"I don't want to go outside."

Sam was on the bed where he'd been most of the day—reading. Next to Dean, but not touching him—not constantly, like he had been. The occasional hand to Dean's shoulder, occasional bump of twelve-year-old jiggling feet against his body as Sam fidgeted while he read.

He was so _close_. So damn close. But not enough to…

Dean's attempts at distracting his mind had become more focused—all his brain power, such as it was, directed toward his own hand, his own fingers. If he could just get them to _move_ a little—could reach out enough to brush them onto Sam's wrist—if he could just make them move in time to circumvent whatever stupid deadline he'd been given.

"There's a playground right in the middle of the cabins," John cajoled. "I can watch you from the window. The fresh air would be good for you, maybe help bring your appetite back. You've been in this room too long."

_We all have, thought Dean._

"I'm not _four_," Sam snarked. The implication he was too old for playgrounds clear and obvious—_funny_, because when they'd first arrived he'd been content enough to swing himself repeatedly over the jungle gym while Dean had done chin-ups using one end of the monkey bars.

"No, if you were four I'd be putting you down for your nap," rejoined John's hard voice, "which is your next option if you try that tone again." Dean figured his father was more serious than not. Sam hadn't slept much, like the rest of them, and though he'd stopped taking naps right out of kindergarten, was always cranky when he didn't get enough sleep.

"Sorry, sir," tone subdued, Sam's feet stopped jiggling, apparently aware of the fine line he was skating after the emotive truce he'd struck with his father during the night—the understanding they'd apparently reached with each other. "But I don't… _please_, I don't want to go outside."

"Come eat some lunch then?" Their dad's voice softer but still stern.

The bed shifted. Dean felt the soft brush of Sam's fingers across his forehead, smoothing his short hair back roughly with a quick abation of pain before Sammy rolled off the bed. "Yessir."

_Gone_—Dean figured he could stop concentrating on his fingers. With no one close enough to touch. But in short order a heavier weight replaced Sam's—the heavy fingers of his father's hand taking Sam's place on his forehead. A cavernous sigh followed, one Dean had wanted to make, but had come out his father's mouth instead. A sensation, like warm lapping water, rolled down through his body. Like blue sky and spring breeze and perfection.

He tried to calm his nerves with the sensation, tried to be content with the current touch, but listened intently for movement—anticipating it, hearing the occasional creaks of wood as his dad leaned back against the headboard making his heart jump in panic.

He tried to concentrate on his hand again and hoped it wasn't his screwed up mind imagining it when he thought his fingers just maybe… finally… _twitched_.

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

"Missouri?" Sam probably shouldn't have been surprised when his cell phone rang before he'd even finished dialing, bringing the psychic's name up on the screen, but he was—startled and grateful as he balanced his feet on the Impala's bumper, the cold of the car leaking into him, numbing him where he sat on the trunk.

"Sam, is everything okay?"

"No. Not really—you knew I was going to call?"

"I did," she confirmed.

"Then do you know—"

"No, I do not know why you are calling. That part, you'll have to tell me."

Haltingly, Sam did, trying not to leave anything out, trying not to sound… trying _to_ sound together—as together as he could. He didn't succeed and damn it—he was a _Winchester_—he wasn't supposed to fall apart like this. He hadn't felt this shaky _before_—before he'd gotten Dean to Nebraska—had he?

He knew for certain he hadn't cried on the phone during any of his phone calls, not even the one to their dad, not even when Joshua had called back and offered the possibility of hope. But he was as close to crying _now _as he'd been in a long time, and starting to rethink Dean's _this-ghost-can-amp-your-fears-and-emotions_ theory. And he was thinking _that_ because he wanted to blame his fumbling emotions on something else. Anything but his own frailty.

Despite that lie he knew the reality—knew they'd been through too much in too short a time and he'd have been skating the edge with or without some ghost to help him.

When Missouri's silence dragged at the end of his accounting, he sucked air in slowly to keep from completely losing it.

"Ten years ago, your father called me to find out if I knew any psychics in Wyoming," She finally replied.

"That was it? That was the reason he called you after however many years?" Sam tried to pull back—could picture his father's deep frown at the disrespectful tone in his voice.

For all the crap she'd given Dean about manners, Missouri didn't comment on it. "He was pursuing a ghost—needed to know where the body was buried." Which told Sam, more or less, how his father had figured out the body was under the floorboards of the old cabin—even though Sam didn't remember his father talking to a psychic.

"Did you know one?"

"No," she admitted. "But, your father was worried. I could sense that and more—even over the phone—so I gave him… I taught him a basic… I guess you could call it a scrying spell, to help him locate it."

Sam nodded to himself. His father had used such methods before. He preferred not to—leaving supernatural methodology to those like Missouri who truly had ability with it. And yet, in all his growing up years, before age twelve and after, his father had never mentioned a scrying spell—ever. Nor had Missouri when Sam and Dean had been in her home, nothing short of desperate to find their father.

"Contrary to what people might think, it only works on the dead, Sam, not the living," the psychic cut in before he could get the question or the accusation out. "And only in certain circumstances."

"Why was Dad so worried?" he asked instead.

"The ghost he was hunting was unusual."

"Dad called it a latcher," Sam agreed, jumping to his next question without stopping to phrase it like one. "Dad never really—"

"Latchers are unusual Sam. Uncommon, but disposed of with the usual methods. I don't think he would have held back on you on purpose."

_Yeah, right_, Sam almost snorted, Mr._ Need-to-know-basis?_ Did she _know_ their father? He bit his lip and forced himself to stay on the more important topic. "In his journal, he said he wanted to leave Dean behind." There'd been more to it than that, Sam remembered. Dad had wanted to rent Dean a car and send him on to Colorado to wait while he and Sam finished the job on their own. "Why Dean? Why was he specifically worried about Dean?"

"He was worried that it'd latched to Dean."

"Possessing him?" Sam already knew that wasn't the case, but he didn't know what it _had_ done and didn't have the words to ask.

"Infecting him," Missouri clarified. "Garden variety spirits possess. Latchers… they can do a little more. They _infect._ And just like some diseases don't take as strong a hold on one person as another, some people are more susceptible to a latcher's infection than others."

"What would have made Dean more susceptible than me or dad?"

"That depends on the latcher. Usually the spirit is seeking a mutual emotion it may share with the victim—no matter how small—seeking someone who understands, or who they can _make_ understand, starting a cycle in the person they latched to."

"But this latcher… ten years ago, when dad killed it—that stopped the infection?"

"Stopped the result. Like a cold, the infection runs it course, but if the ghost is put to rest, the outcome of the infection reverses."

Sam thought about that, hesitated, then told Missouri… haltingly… about his dream and the rest of it. "Missouri? Right now… is Dean… could he still be infected? Or is it still his heart?" _And does my dream mean something… anything? _"And can reapers—"

"Oh, honey, I wish I could tell you, but I'm not there, and I told you before, it doesn't work like that."

"Then how does it work?" he rushed—frustrated because Jack, the journal, Dean, _everyone_ seemed to be able to tell him what wasn't instead of what _was_. Why couldn't he just get a freakin' straight answer?

Missouri's silence tempered his frustration—he could picture her raised eyebrows, the direct, flat purse of her mouth.

"I've spoken to your father, Sam."

Sam took a steadying breath of air. "What?"

"He wanted you to know, if you called, that he's okay—he can't talk to you yet, but he's okay."

Sam felt his eyes burn at the corners. "Where is he?"

"I don't know, but, he believes you and Dean can take care of each other, and I believe he's right. He raised two very capable young men. I'll send you all the information I have to help you out, but you'll have to take it from there. I wish I could do more."

Sam nodded, despite knowing she couldn't see him, because his voice was suddenly, irrevocably, absent and he had the feeling she could sense that.

And he thought maybe his spidey sense _was_ tingling or working or whatever, because he thought he could see and sense the sympathetic frown she gave in return, thought he could see her blunt eyes. And hurry—he sensed hurry—like maybe she was in the middle of her own sort of crisis. Whatever the reason, he knew he wouldn't have her on the phone much longer.

His eyebrows creased.

From their first meeting Missouri had demonstrated a willingness to lie to keep a customer happy and he worried for a moment the news about Dad was something she was feeding him to make him feel better—ease the tension about Dean by giving him hope about Dad.

He hoped not.

"Sam Winchester, you take care now. Get your brother on his feet."

He nodded again without speaking—heard the dial tone before he could even try to venture with his voice again. He listened to it a moment then dropped the phone casually on top of the bag next to him—lucky the phone didn't slide off or bounce to the pavement below.

His mind was whirling with more questions—questions he didn't think he'd ever get answered.

_How long ago did dad call?_

_Did you know where he was when he did call? _

_Did he ask about Dean? _

_Did he know about Dean's electrocution? Did he know where they were then? Now?_

He propped his elbows on his knees and let his head fall forward, digging the bottom of his palms into his eyes—hard—blocking threatening tears and pushing angrily at the headache still pounding in his skull.

He'd take a moment, get himself under control, then get back inside, back to Dean, back to the monitoring machines, too bright lights, and well intentioned friends—back to the vague chance in hell he had of actually figuring this out.

* * *

tbc


	20. Chapter 20

**Part 20**

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996 _

The twitch—the subtle stupid _unnoticeable_ twitch—of Dean's hand was like igniting a flame.

It was nothing like the pain that came from the lack of contact, but for a long moment afterward, his fingers burned. And it was that _after _sensation that made it real, made him believe he'd done it—made an emotion build in his chest that quickened his pulse. The pumping of his own blood abruptly loud in his ears, intense, rushing—relieved.

"Dean?" John's voice rumbled over him, the stroke of his hand across Dean's head halting.

_Did Dad see it?_

One of John's hands slid under him, gripping the back of his neck, the other heavy on his chest—comfort in the weight of it like always, but an extra push there as well. "Dean, come on, son," his voice coaxed, sounding more worried than hopeful—more worried than reassured.

The burn in Dean's fingertips was receding, residual tingles riding up his arm, adding to the tightness welling in his chest and the rushing of his pulse. He focused on his fingers, ready to try again.

_"Damn it!"_

Dean's thoughts reeled sharply back, not having expected the snafu tone or his father's curse. Didn't expect the abrupt way he was levered upright against his father's chest, head tilted back at an angle that made it feel abnormally heavy. His focus seemed to narrow, the rushing in his ears intensifying.

He could feel John's heart thudding into his backbone and was abruptly more cognizant of that than anything else.

"_Dad?_" Sammy's troubled voice rang somewhere to his right.

"Come on, Dean, don't do this! _Breathe!_"

_What?_

He was, wasn't he? How could he not be breathing?

"Come on, Dean," his father continued, folding command into desperation. He moved again and Dean was dropped flat to the mattress. A second later his head was tilted back, rough fingers under his jaw forcing it up at an uncomfortably extreme angle.

Dean was now feeling the strain for air, a feeling that had been hidden under whatever euphoria had captivated him after successfully moving his hand. He was cognizant now of the lack of motion in his own lungs, his need for oxygen, and… of what his father was about to do.

He pulled desperately at his scattered thoughts, refocused—not on his _hand_ but his lungs, his throat, whatever muscles allowed him to draw air.

"Dean?"

It burned, all the way in and all the way out—a strident breath, halting and uncomfortable, followed by another and then another. But Dean was doing it, was in control of it, and wasn't sure if he should be happy to be doing it on his own or concerned that he had to do it so consciously. In. Out. In. Out.

"That's it, Dean. That's it, son."

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

Charlie had three different accounts of the Nora/Elsa Prisal legend. Four, if you counted the version he most enjoyed telling. But Sam couldn't count that one because he knew it came almost entirely from his friend's imagination.

The first version said the Prisals were sisters. The second had them as cousins. In version number three, they were the same person and Elsa was just a middle name.

The premise in all three versions stayed more or less the same.

Having come to the mountains outside Lander just before the dawning of the sixties, Nora (or Elsa) or both—immigrants from somewhere—settled into a cabin in the north fork of the canyon with a boyfriend or husband of one of the girls. Which led to the predictable story of an affair resulting in murder, and a pact by the sisters (or cousins) to stay together, being broken.

In the versions where Elsa and Nora were, in fact, two different people, the affair was surmisedly between the husband/boyfriend and the sister he wasn't supposed to be sleeping with. Discovery and jealous confrontation followed and one of the three ended up dead—buried by the other two in parts unknown. The slain's restless spirit manifested itself almost immediately, making its way back to the cabin to exact revenge on the other two.

Charlie gave that version an alternate ending, telling Sam he once heard a version from an old storyteller in town that had the man burying both sisters alive and then committing suicide.

In the version where the two were one, poor Nora Elsa Prisal—left alone and neglected in the cabin day upon day—took to having affairs with various men in town. To remedy the habit, the husband/boyfriend tried to chain her up in the cabin, accidentally killed her, and was slaughtered by her ghost a week later.

Sam was more inclined to believe the variant that had the three dying all together in some way because it meshed well with the casserole scenario they'd been investigating—two or three spirits tied together in an emotionally intense life and an even more emotionally intense or violent death would stay tied together as ghosts, having never resolved what had occurred between them.

Additionally, Sam knew from ten years ago that one of them had been buried under the cabin's floorboards. Whether she'd been put there alive or already dead still wasn't clear.

"What about the south fork?" Sam asked Charlie—too intensely, because Charlie was starting to look suspicious, like he no longer believed telling Sam these stories was simply meant to distract him from his worry over Dean, as Sam had claimed.

Charlie's eyebrows lowered. "What _about _the south fork?"

Sam backed off a little, tried to maintain _casual_. "Those… disappearing hikers? What are people saying? You said ghosts were haunting the canyon. Where do people think the ghosts came from?"

"They're just legends, Sam." Charlie squinted at him. "Why are you asking all this?"

"I know they're just legends. I'm just…" A dozen excuses ran through Sam's head as to why he could be asking Charlie these questions, but, damn, he just needed to know, and he still wasn't any better at lying or wanting to lie to Charlie than he'd been a day ago. "Just tell me."

Charlie sighed, shaking his head as if to say _whatever dude, you're worrying me_ but started talking anyway. "Not much. No stories I heard as a kid or anything. The girl at the Dairy Land window told me that an old man lost his daughter in the fog, died while searching, and now his spirit is trapped in the canyon to carry on his search for eternity, yadda yadda. Other people said he lost his wife, and some even say it was his dog."

"Just some random old guy? Or do they have a name for him?"

"No name I've heard," answered Charlie. "Like I said, the stories aren't real old. There hasn't been time for people to make up and add details. People invent stories when weird stuff happens."

"And nothing ever happened in that fork of the canyon before this year?"

Charlie shrugged, stretching, standing—reaching for his cup of coffee. "People get lost, but not usually in that canyon. Early spring this year—makes things a little tricky. Fog, mudslides… stuff like that. People have probably been experiencing some variation of what happened to us the other night, but they get irrational about it… start to imagine ghosts and stuff. The weather will change, summer will come, make everything normal, and the legend will either build or go away entirely. You know how things go."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, rubbing a hand over his face. In the morning—he glanced down at his watch—or later _this_ morning, he'd see if he could access the town census records—births, deaths, see where and if the name Prisal popped up. From that, he'd at least be able to figure out if the Prisals were one or two.

He dropped his hand and noticed Charlie was watching him warily. "You should maybe try to sleep a little," Charlie tried.

Sam shook his head, pushing himself to his feet. He needed to go back in and check on Dean, check the laptop he'd set by Dean's bed, check for a wireless connection so he could see if Missouri had sent the information she said she would. "There's no way I could sleep right now," he admitted.

"I know," said Charlie. And he looked for a moment like he wanted to add something more before a flurry of activity down the hall stole their attention.

* * *

The waiting room in the clinic wasn't much of a waiting room. More like a collection of plastic chairs lining one part of the wide linoleum hallway and the slightly more open space in front of the admitting desk.

Charlie seemed content enough, switching chairs every few minutes, alternating his attention between the magazine in his lap and the nearly muted television in the corner. And then Sam had come back out from his brother's room and started talking with Charlie near the cluster of chairs closest to the receptionist desk. Even then, Charlie shifted from foot to foot, shuffling around Sam's lanky form—restless like he always was.

_Must be from all the caffeine_, Blake thought.

Charlie was sipping at what had to be his third cup of coffee since he and Blake had arrived. Might have even been his fourth, since he could have grabbed another in the short time Blake was outside talking to Sam.

Blake wondered what Charlie and Sam were talking about—was too far away to overhear and didn't want to be perceived as nosy if he got up and walked across the room to join them.

He tried to not let it bother him that Sam was talking to Charlie instead of him.

Kim was more motionless than Charlie, but edgy, and alert to any abrupt sound around them. Twice, she'd let her head droop back against the wall, eyelids dipping then popping open to refocus on the flickering TV program—some public service channel. Something about whales, Blake deduced.

But he hadn't really been paying attention. He was feeling a little impatient. He wanted to know exactly what was going on—thought it ridiculous that Charlie's brother hadn't been able to give them anything definitive on the condition of Sam's brother.

Blake had asked Kim twice since he'd arrived and she'd confirmed, both times, that from everything she'd overheard Jack say—Dean's heart was fine.

She'd said it patiently, but Blake had caught the looks she'd given during her answer—similar to the expression Charlie had worn during their drive—similar to the looks Donna and Sara, and even Garrett, had given him before he'd left the cabin. Sympathetic but blaming—as if any of this was his fault—as if he should actually be feeling guilty for something.

He hadn't made the guy spar.

And it bothered him that they—that his _friends_—all seemed to be on Dean's side. Just because the guy had passed out, it didn't mean Blake was wrong about him.

Couldn't anyone else see that?

He realized, of course, now was not the time to push. He knew he had to be sensitive about stuff like this. It was hard for people to see what might be really going on when they were in the middle of an intense situation. Which brought his thoughts full circle—if nothing was wrong with Dean's heart, why were they still here? And why couldn't the doctors around here tell them something more?

He tossed a magazine down on the chair next to him absently, and tried to temper his frustration. As he did, something loud beeped in the distance, followed by a voice crackling shortly over an intercom.

Blake let his eyes drift to the wide doors, toward the sound's origin. Something must be happening with a patient, he figured.

Sam and Charlie both tensed at the sound. Blake stood up from his chair, ready to join them, when the flurry of activity behind the large doors where the patients were increased.

Lander was a small town with not many emergency patients. It was easy to guess Sam would figure the activity might be surrounding his brother. Predictably, Sam headed for the wide doors, Charlie on his heels. The nurse slid out from behind her desk to block them.

Blake took this as his cue to take over. He moved quickly, sliding in between Charlie and Sam. Maybe he could finally get them some answers. "What's going on?" he asked the nurse, making each word precise. He had a tone that could get things done—a tone that got people to listen when he needed them to.

"I'm not sure," the nurse barked back. "But let the staff do their job. If you go down there right now you'll just be getting in the way."

"Is it my brother?" Sam asked.

"I don't know," she answered, no give in her voice, meeting Sam head on in a staring contest. When it was clear she wasn't about to let Sam pass her, he paced back in frustration, almost tripping over his own feet as he did so, catching himself with a hand to the nurse's desk.

For a moment, he looked like he might punch the wall.

Blake exchanged a wary glance with Charlie.

"Sam?" Kim came over to join them, her soft voice hitched with just the right amount of concern. Charlie dropped his arm around her and shook his head, silently letting her know they didn't know any more than she did, and that Sam shouldn't be questioned just then.

They waited several tense minutes before the oversized doors swung open again and Jack appeared. Blake folded his arms. Maybe now they'd get some actual answers.

"He's fine," Jack preempted, looking directly at Sam, meeting with Sam's blatantly disbelieving eyes. He sighed. "It was his breathing," he admitted carefully. And Blake wondered why doctors always had to be so vague about things. "It stopped long enough to set off the alarm but by the time we got there he'd started again. He had a few irregular breaths and his O2 levels dipped, but he's back to normal now."

"What does that mean?" Sam stepped forward. "I mean—that's bad, isn't it?"

"It's concerning," Jack answered, "but in this case… I think it means he's waking up." He smiled a little, but Blake saw the caution in it.

"He's awake?" Sam breathed—the question as brittle as fall leaves.

"Not yet." Jack's eyes shuttered. "But he seems to be coming out of it. Do you want to go back in?"

Sam flashed the _well duh_ look Blake expected and surged forward, stopping briefly at the door to look back at the three of them. "Thanks," he muttered, "for waiting with me."

"Go see your brother, idiot," Charlie answered before Blake could say anything.

And Sam was gone.

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996 _

Since the not-breathing incident, having Sam or Dad leave him was less of a concern.

John held him propped against his chest, a careful hand over his heart, monitoring the breathing Dean could now control. A euphoric sensation—even if the air he drew felt weighted and made his chest feel tight.

He played with it at first, just to make sure it was really his—that it had really come back under his command. Drawing air in slowly, then quickly, holding his breath and then letting it out in a rush. But he could tell, after a while, that the irregularity of it set both his brother and father on edge, so he tried to stop messing with it—tried to make each breath smooth and even—even though he wondered, for a moment, if he might be able to breathe in Morse code… and wondered whether or not his dad would get it if he did.

Probably not.

The semantics would take too much concentration anyway.

It didn't stop him from trying to focus on other things—trying to wiggle his toes, shift his legs, turn his head side to side or—what he hoped to do most—open his freakin' eyes.

Or talk.

Talking would be good. Having Dad or Sam hear him, and _know_ he was awake.

Each effort was met, he thought—_hoped_—with miniscule success and the same igniting, burning sensation that had hit his fingers when he'd first moved them.

After each time, there was small lull before he could make himself—_remind_ himself—to breathe again. And each time, he could tell, the gap of air intake made Sam and Dad a little more anxious. And it exhausted him, bit a bit, more and more. By the time he realized he could actually make his eyelids flicker, he felt like he'd run a hundred miles and still wasn't done with the race.

He didn't realize he was leaking tears with each strain until he felt his father's hand brushing the wetness into his temples—smoothing the inadvertent wrinkling around his eyes. John shook him a little each time, asking different variations of, "Dean? Son? Are you with us? Come on, kiddo, open your eyes."

When he was finally able to open them—and hold them open long enough to register form and shape—he was struck with visions and sensations in Technicolor vertigo and muddy slowness.

The first nearly clear image he could make out was Sam's slightly blurred face—creased eyebrows, broody watery eyes, and hopeful half-smile.

"That's it, Dean. Come on. Stay with us."

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

Waking for Dean was déjà vu—Technicolor vertigo and muddy slowness—a weird lacking sense of place and time.

He felt oddly conscious of his breathing.

Sam's face loomed over him tightly. It was out of focus, but Dean caught it in clear flashes of creased eyebrows, broody watery eyes, and hopeful half-smile—blinked twice and still wasn't sure if the images were memory or reality.

He squinted and tried to push out the fog in his brain that was making the Sam before him a weird mixture of twelve and twenty-two. He blinked again then closed his eyes because the dual image was making him dizzy and giving him a headache.

"Come on, Dean. Stay with me."

The voice was commanding. Dean pushed his eyes open once more—swallowed and felt his head spin, the voice carrying with it an unusual echo.

_Stay with me. Stay with us. That's it Dean. Come on_.

"Dad?" he whispered. His voice felt rough—like gravel. But his vision was clearing—enough to see the Sammy in front of him crystallize more into the twenty-two year old version rather than the twelve. Clear enough for Dean to see the way Sam's expression tightened around his whispered word.

"It's _me,_ Dean." Sam moved closer, a hand reaching out to grip Dean's shoulder, pushing back—pushing on—a sensation Dean wasn't sure was present or remembered. When Sam rocked back slightly, Dean's hand snapped up to clutch his wrist before he even realized he was doing it—holding Sam's hand locked on his shoulder.

Sam's eyes widened momentarily before he shuffled forward, head turning to glance at someone behind him, but not trying to extract himself from Dean's grip. "Dean?"

Dean blinked again, felt maybe like his ears needed to pop, because even though he saw his name come out of Sam's mouth, he still couldn't tell who the speaker was. It still sounded like Dad. It sounded exactly like Dad. "Dad?" he tried again, tried to make his voice come out stronger, but it didn't—it fizzled out low, brittle, and whispery thin.

"No, Dean. It's _me_. It's _Sam_." His brother's voice was tight like his face—and, like his face, was crumpling at the edges.

Dean unconsciously flexed his hand on Sam's wrist. "Sammy?"

"Yes."

The word was clear and strong and all of a sudden Dean felt a touch more lucid.

Before him, Sammy was almost completely in focus. The clarity letting Dean see what he hadn't right off. His brother looked completely worn—ragged and shaggy—wearing a dark blue, unfamiliar jacket, grey weaving through his normally healthy skin tone. His eyes looked darker than normal and the dark bruise across one cheek stood out starkly against the rough pallor—appearing bold and painful.

It was the focus on Sam's bruise—the strain to remember how it got there—that brought Dean the rest of the way out of his haze. The memories in his brain began to realign, sorting past from present. He tried not to let the gaps bother him—tried not to let it bother him when he couldn't quite place where he was or how he got there.

If his powers of deduction had any viability, he could assume he was in a hospital—he just didn't know why.

He refocused on Sam, recognized the shaky worry on his face as the expression he'd worn in the hospital during Dean's heart-thing, and Dean wondered if he'd had the relapse Sam had been so afraid of.

"You with me now?" Sam questioned, watching him closely.

His body didn't feel—Dean wasn't sure _what_ his body felt—but he was suddenly conscious of how tightly he was gripping his brother's wrist, of how abruptly clear his memories of ten years ago had become, and how he didn't yet feel ready to give Sam his hand back.

Cautiously, he gentled his grip, but didn't let go. "Dude, you look like hell," he ground out, stones in his throat.

The expression Sam graced him with was both shattered and exasperated, but he laughed, lightly, like he wasn't sure he really wanted to or should. Whatever had happened to Dean, he'd scared his brother, badly—made him worry. Dean really hoped Sam wasn't about to cry. He was on the verge, Dean could tell—frayed and frazzled—and hadn't Dean begged the universe just a few nights ago to give his brother a _break_?

"I look better than you," Sam retorted then glanced behind him again.

Dean realized they weren't alone—and was lucid enough now to know whoever was in the room with them wasn't _Dad_. He ignored that for now—tried to ignore the fact that _Dad_ had been the first thing on his lips, and how, for one aching minute, he'd actually expected him to be there. "What happened?" he mumbled instead.

"What do you remember?" Sam returned.

Dean thought about that. What _did_ he remember? Where did the gaps start and stop?

He remembered Lander. He remembered disappearing people and a two-for-one ghost special in the canyon. Sam, Stanford friends of Sam's he wasn't sure he liked, a cabin too big to even be called a house. Blake and all his stupid—_stupid—_questions. Sparring. Going upstairs for a four-minute shower and… nothing.

"Dean?"

"I went to shower?" he answered hesitantly—warily hoping no one had found him passed out naked.

"You'd finished by the time I got up there, but you were… out cold on… on the floor—wouldn't wake up."

Dean processed that, checking the very, very hazy memories he had of feeling dizzy… of not wanting to crack his head on the shower wall… of stepping out of the bathroom… of pulling on his jeans.

Sam looked away from him, then back. "Jack's gotta ask you some questions—check you out," he explained, his voice gentle enough to make Dean want to smack him, make him stop treating him like he was... _delicate_.

But when Sam gave his shoulder a squeeze and started to pull his hand away, Dean couldn't deny the flash of panic that rushed through him, or the bruising, reflexive tightening on Sam's wrist. "Don't," he grit out, unable to make himself stop or let go, even after watching Sam's eyes turn wide and startled. The irony of this _need_ coming so close on the heels of internally scoffing Sam's tone were not lost on him, but he couldn't help it_._

"Dean—"

"Just stay," he whispered, feeling shaky and a little confused—unable to stop the next word from following. "_Please_."

Sam's careful grip returned, tightening, thumb pressing almost uncomfortably over his clavicle, other hand settling cautiously on the bed near Dean's hip. Sam leaned over him, eyes confused and worried, darting between Dean and Jack, who'd come up on Dean's other side.

"Dean, are you still with me?" Sam questioned—as though a begging Dean could only ever be half-conscious. Or maybe Sam thought Dean still thought he was _Dad_.

Dean ignored him, shut his eyes tightly, tried to let go of the fear and _couldn't_. He averted his gaze from Sam's when his eyes reopened—further ignored the intensity in his little brother's face—to look directly at Jack.

"So, what's the story, Doc? How soon can I get out of here?"

* * *

tbc


	21. Chapter 21

**Part 21**

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

Dean's bed had been lowered and then shifted toward the window and the wall, various curtains drawn to create a cubicle and the illusion of privacy. Whether this was an attempt to grant Dean a view or to simply help him feel less exposed, Sam wasn't sure. He suspected the latter—suspected Jack's impassive face wasn't belying an inability to read his patients.

Dean seemed to relax—marginally—in the more defensive position. He appeared more aware, more awake—finally lost the desperate look he'd carried since opening his eyes, and eventually eased the crushing grip on Sam's wrist.

Sam was grateful for the drop in the bed's height—low enough now that when he pushed down the guardrail to sit next to Dean's knee, he _was_ actually sitting rather than leaning, both his feet staying easily planted on the ground. It was comfortable. It allowed him a better angle to gauge Dean's face. Allowed him to ask questions without looming.

All of which seemed good until he realized sitting was a mistake.

He felt instantly heavy, like lead weights had been attached to all his limbs, his fingers, his toes, and knew it would take a miracle—and possibly a shot of external adrenaline—to create even the remote possibility of getting to his feet again.

He was tapped.

He'd used up the last of his reserve energy during the arguments with his recently awake brother.

And the arguments hadn't even been that strenuous—Jack doing most of the work, making most of the points Sam wanted to make, without the references to ghosts and reapers Sam would have thrown in. All Sam had really had to do was add a few well-placed, worry-filled glares—glares that had sent Dean's eyes skittering away in acquiescence, glares meant to show Dean the full force of what all this had done to him. What this had done to both of them.

Dean was still Dean and therefore still stubborn, but Sam felt he'd won on the important points, anyway.

The trip to Riverton had been predictably refused, along with the suggested additional heart testing that would have gone with it. Sam hadn't pushed, but, with lowered eyebrows, had silently reserved the right to force it later if he deemed it necessary. _He_—not Dean.

"In that case, we'd like to continue to monitor you for a while before we release you," Jack had added—Dean starting to shake his head before the sentence was even complete.

Sam had set his jaw, fortressed his eyes. _Hell if you think you're going to just walk out of here and pretend nothing's wrong and nothing happened after the hell—repeated hell—you've put me through,_ he'd glared. And realized later that the fingers from the hand he'd kept on Dean's shoulder had unintentionally tightened into a fist—griping both cloth and skin, leaving tiny marks he would see on Dean later. Later, when Dean slipped carefully from clinic gown to clean t-shirt with Sam's shaky help. Marks that would faintly echo the fingerprints Dean's own tense hand had left circling his wrist.

Sam pushed the argument out of his mind, shifting on the bed until his hip bumped Dean's knee, reminding himself that Dean was awake and they were both better than they'd been an hour ago.

He reached a hand up, rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his eyes, then spread his hand wider to reach his temples, pushing at the headache that had never quite gone away, aware on some level, Dean was watching him—tracking his movements with the disconcerting intensity he'd been tracking them with ever since waking.

"You did the whole _no-sleeping-thing_ again… didn't you?" Dean's voice sounded raw, heavy, like it was whenever he was awakened before he'd had enough sleep. Sam hoped the raw sound didn't mean there was another coma pending… or whatever the hell this had been.

Just the same, one corner of Sam's mouth twitched upward, feeling both the concern and the levity in Dean's question. He wanted to lean into both—let Dean somehow convince him all was well, even though he knew it wasn't.

He stopped rubbing at his headache, dropped his hand to his lap, and started to swing one of his feet back and forth faintly—not hearing the way it bump-bumped against the base of the bed until Dean's eyes flitted down and sideways with the noise.

Sam stopped, shrugged. "Yeah, well, you were sleeping enough for the both of us," he tried, but there was no levity left in him. He was oddly grateful when Dean didn't laugh, was grateful Dean didn't try to pretend this away, but warily conscious of the lowered look Dean gave him.

The conversation they were heading into wouldn't be easy. Dean was uncomfortable already. Dean would have turned his back to have this conversation if he could have.

Sam shifted his leg up in order to face his brother more directly. "Are you sure you feel okay?"

He waited—thought for a moment Dean wouldn't answer—would balk at the gentle insistence in his tone.

Dean didn't though—didn't balk. He blinked once, shifted higher against the pillows at his back before giving a small jerk of a nod, the flash of guilt brief but bright in his eyes. Movements careful—like he could tell what he'd put his brother through and was working on how to navigate Sam's nerves.

The expression made Sam feel weird because it made Dean look—_breakable_. Sam had never seen Dean as breakable before—not _really_—not until he'd been electrocuted. Dean had been hurt before, and it had always scared Sam—but never before had he been the sole person responsible for getting him better.

With no dad to take control—to fix things the way dads were supposed to—Sam was being forced to look at his surest foundation, and, this closely, was seeing all the cracks he'd never known were there, or had somehow found a way to always ignore. Cracks that made Dean vulnerable—the same _vulnerable_ Sam had historically labeled as unreasonable. Cracks that made Dean _exposed_. And the _scary_ left in his stomach from this new position of responsibility was different from any kind he'd ever known.

_I can't do this alone_, he remembered Dean saying, when he'd come to get him from Stanford.

Sam's answer had been so automatic he hadn't had to think about it: _Yes you can_.

_Yeah, well, I don't want to._

Sam wasn't sure if he'd been lying to himself or if he'd really seen Dean that way—capable, needing no one and nothing.

He swallowed, hard. "No shortness of breath…" he continued. "No numb tingling in your fingers and toes?" He hoped that by using Dean's own words, the tone of the too-recent, too-honest conversation they'd had yesterday morning would be brought back in a way that would make Dean open with him—make Dean not try to protect him from all the stupid things he always tried to protect him from.

He hoped Dean realized, this time, holding back _anything_ could just make things worse.

"No. I don't think…" Dean paused, opening and closing his hands, and Sam could feel Dean's feet behind him jerk and twitch. "I don't think it was my heart."

"Jack thought he heard a murmur."

"_Thought_," Dean reiterated.

Sam brushed his hand against a thread on his knee. "The ghost then?"

Dean looked at him, something in his eyes Sam didn't quite recognize, but it made his heart thump faster and his stomach tingle—made him want to chew his fingernails.

Dean looked away, shrugged.

Sam kept his fingernail out of his mouth with effort, thinking, maybe the look wasn't unfamiliar. Maybe he was just seeing more of what leaked out when Dean could no longer hold back what he'd bricked in. Maybe he was seeing more of the Dean he'd been getting to know ever since they'd hit the road together. The Dean that confessed to that kid Lucas that after their mom died he… _hadn't felt like talking either_.

"Okay, then," Sam continued softly. "Do you remember anything?"

Dean's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"That's what you asked me… the other night after I… woke up. You wanted to know if I remembered anything." Sam watched Dean's face in the beat of silence that followed. "_And_ it's what you asked Elly when we interviewed her yesterday." _Was that only yesterday?_

Dean's gaze darted down then up in quick succession, chin tucked low so that his gaze loomed under his eyebrows—a pose Sam usually read as _back off_ or some variation of the same. But the _something else _in Dean's eyes tempered the look—cautionary—like he knew he had to answer but didn't want to. Whatever it was, the expression told Sam with certainty he wasn't going to like where this conversation went.

He rocked back—the movement making him feel bleary and lightheaded. He caught Dean's leg with his hand when he reached out to steady himself. "It's the same ghost, isn't it? Somehow, Dad didn't really kill it or—"

"I don't remember anything."

"Dean—"

"I _don't_, Sam." Dean shifted forward, taking his own weight, leaning away from the bed's support and the pillows behind him, reaching a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. "It's not… it's not the same thing as before… not exactly. I can tell."

Sam sighed, and felt himself moving toward belligerence. "_How_ can you tell? Dean, you passed out… just like you did before. Maybe not for as long but… if it's not your heart… it _has_ to be the ghost. Doesn't it?"

"I'm not saying this isn't connected… but it's just… it could be the ghosts are related somehow… maybe that whole casserole thing makes them… I don't know… feels like they probably are, but whatever this was… it was just… _different._"

"How is it different? How do you know? You just said you didn't remember anything."

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck again, pulled in cautious air and looked at Sam, pointedly. "I don't… _this_ time."

Sam stilled, keeping their gazes locked. "This time," he repeated. "But you remember something from when you were out before… ten years ago. That's why you asked me, and Elly… What exactly do you remember?" He'd thought about this, about what it was Dean could have been asking. Voices? Dreams? Ghosts could induce dreams sometimes.

And if it was a latcher… had somehow been trying to connect or latch to Dean… make Dean experience something it had experienced… then…

"Dean, _what_ do you remember?"

His brother released a heavy breath, turning his face to the window. "Everything. I mean… a few things are hazy but—"

"Everything." _That made no sense_. "What do you mean… everything?"

"I mean… everything." Dean shrugged. "I wasn't… I wasn't really out. In 1996. I was awake."

Sam waited, silently—waited for Dean to make sense, waited for Dean to say he was kidding or to explain the joke—but his brother's gaze didn't waver and his eyes didn't change.

It was that—the absolute seriousness in Dean's eyes—that finally made him repeat back to himself what Dean had just said and lower his own voice even more when he finally responded. "Dean, you were out. You didn't open your eyes, you didn't _twitch_. Dad put an IV in you. He checked your pain responses. You didn't respond at all, man. You didn't even make a sound. You were _out_." He said it gently, thinking maybe Dean wasn't as with him as he'd thought. Thinking maybe Dean was still just… mixed up a little.

"Look, I know, okay. I know all that. I was…" Dean sighed, reached a hand up to knuckle his eyebrow before looking back at Sam with his lowered gaze. "I couldn't _do _anything or _say_ anything… but, I was awake. I was conscious. I could… I could hear you and Dad and everything… I just couldn't… it was like I was trapped. I couldn't…" he broke off, raking his hand through his hair, "but I was still awake."

Watching him, Sam felt something vague, like panic, crawl into him. _Awake?_ There was _no_ way. Even when Dean had finally come to, he'd been so… groggy. "You never said anything." His voice was flat.

"I know."

Dean had no reason to lie—wouldn't lie, not about something like this—but Sam suddenly needed proof. How could Dean have been awake and Sam have not _known_ it? "Back then, when Dad thought I was sleeping, he would sit with you and—"

"Sing," Dean finished.

Sam felt his body still then shiver. "What was the song?"

Dean shifted as he answered, "Little Bird." His face colored as he continued, "It was, ah… Mom's song. She loved musicals. She used to… she used to sing show tunes to us all the time before we went to bed. 'Little Bird' was her favorite."

"It's from a musical?"

Dean nodded. "Man of La Mancha."

If he hadn't been so damn tired Sam might have reacted differently. As it was his eyes burned hot immediately and he dropped his head. "Spanish Inquisition. Cervantes. The story of Don Quixote," he mumbled.

Was it supposed to be ironic that his mom's favorite musical was about a man fighting a battle no one else believed in—about a man fighting things no one else could see? A mad man or a wise man depending on who you asked. His followers either noble or stupid.

Was it supposed to be ironic that—

"Sam?" Dean's voice was low with concern and Sam realized some of the building moisture behind his eyes had slipped out. His face burned with the effort of trying to keep the rest of the emotion in—effort weakened by exhaustion and stress.

"Sorry, it's just that… Man of La Mancha was playing at a community theater near Stanford. Jess wanted me to go see it with her. She had tickets. We were supposed to go... like the week after she died."

"Listen, Sam—"

"No, _I'm_ sorry." Sam blinked heavily, rubbed one hand gruffly at his eyes. "I don't mean to be… just…" Sam wasn't going to go there just now—didn't want to go there. He was just tired, that was all, and he wasn't going to give Dean any reason to turn this discussion around on him—make it about Sam instead. He cleared his throat. "Why didn't you ever say anything about being awake? To Dad… or me. Why?" He didn't mean it to come out sounding so angry, but it did, and it bothered him that his emotions suddenly seemed all over the place.

"I… it didn't matter. The ghost was dead. I was fine. There was no reason…"

"Well, there is _now_." Sam felt his jaw muscles jump painfully as they tightened, felt the slightly irrational pull on his emotions as he waved a hand to stop Dean's justifications. "I want to know. I want to know _everything_."

* * *

By the time Jack came back in to check on Dean a few hours later, Sam was slumped onto his side, sleeping hard, head mashed into Dean's pillow. His legs were hanging off the bed from the knee down, feet brushing the floor but bent awkwardly at his ankles—back pressed into Dean's side, making the reading Dean was trying to do both comfortable and awkward.

Awkward, because Dean wanted to raise the head of his bed a little more, and awkward because he had to shift his arm carefully—whenever he reached out to the propped up laptop to type in a new search or open a new web page—to avoid elbowing Sam's head.

But Sam sleeping was a relief. Sam close to him was reassuring. Tempering the fierce fear of having him gone, having him leave. And honestly, the only thing keeping Dean from getting out of the bed and searching for his clothes was the greater desire to not disturb Sam's rest.

Just the same, he felt frustrated. Dean had always hated inaction, and sitting on a bed in a clinic when he _wasn't really hurt_ felt like the worst kind. At worst, he was just a little tired… and maybe still a little mixed up in ways he couldn't find words for. Memories of ten years ago, once vague and consciously repressed, were suddenly clearer than any memory he held—sharp and cutting in every sense.

He'd had to remind himself a few times that he wasn't in a rented one-room cabin up the canyon, had to remind himself a few more times that Dad wasn't with them, that the pain he'd never quite forgotten from that time wasn't _recent._ Even though he felt _now_ like he had _then_—after waking—felt himself having to push back the panic anytime Sam's touch rocked away from him.

He knew the way he'd tracked Sam's movements after waking up, even after he'd let go of Sam's wrist, freaked his brother out, but he still couldn't help doing it. Sam, who'd looked liked death warmed over, tired and angry, scattered, yet focused and intense when they'd spoken after Jack left them alone.

Dean had given him part of it, and figured he'd have to eventually give him the rest—but _later_, when Sam lost the hazy halo of twelve-year-old Dean kept seeing. When Sam stopped looking like he might drop or cry, at any moment.

It'd taken work, but his little brother had relented—not easily, or happily—his eyes had remained stubborn, showing blatant disbelief at Dean's claims of feeling fine. Ultimately, though, Sam's weariness had won out.

"I wondered how long it would take him to fall asleep," Jack commented in soft tones, not whispering, but respectful of Sam's sleep.

Dean looked to where Jack had swung one of the curtains back. He pushed the food tray, with the laptop perched on top of it, out of his face, glanced down at Sam, and graced Jack with a not-really-embarrassed shrug. After all, Jack had a little brother—maybe this behavior wasn't all that odd to him.

Dean tried to shift himself more upright, to better face the doctor, without dislodging Sam, but when Sam's head shifted back against his shoulder and a disgruntled sound followed, he gave up, and glanced back at Jack with another shrug. "He used to climb in bed with me all the time when he was a kid. I thought I'd broken him of the habit years ago." The quip was easy, but came out flat because of the half-lie mixed into it. Climbing into bed with his brother was something Dean had started, after the fire. Sam was just the one who'd kept it going.

To his credit, Jack didn't seem bothered by Sam's pose. Smiled a little, even. Looked almost longing in a way that made Dean think his perceptions on people of wealth weren't all that off. He'd always associated it with distance, formality, politeness, and clean—the kind of clean that was overly done.

But maybe Jack and Charlie _hadn't_ grown up in the woefully sterile environment he imagined.

Jack's expression wasn't distant or overly formal when he sat—cautiously quiet—in the chair near Sam's knees. "Charlie did that a few times when he was little. His room used to be right next to mine. But, when he was four, we moved back to Martha's Vineyard, where his room was in a different wing from mine. He came looking for me one night—got lost. The next morning I found him sleeping under the piano in our mom's music library. I don't think he tried finding me after that."

Dean tried to imagine a house that large, felt a pang from the impersonally cold image it reflected. It felt wrong once he built the picture into his head because it both matched and didn't match what he'd seen of Jack and Charlie so far. And his mind immediately conjured an image of little-Sam in the same situation, seeking him out after a nightmare, wandering long, foreign hallways, scared and unable to find him.

He wondered what that type of life might have been like.

A life with that much space.

Dean had his own room for his first four years of life. Sam for his first six months. And almost never since. From the moment of the fire onward, they'd shared quarters that were tighter than tight. It sucked sometimes—tiny, leaky, two-room apartments, smoke-folded motel rooms, the studio apartment the three of them lived out of for four months in Virginia. But it was what it was, and at least they'd been together.

"Charlie wanted me to let Sam know he and the others went back to the house but they'll be back later," Jack continued, changing the subject without waiting for Dean to comment. "And he gave me this. Sam asked him to bring it in from the car." He held up a bundle of clothes—Dean's sweatshirt, a t-shirt, and the jeans Dean remembered putting on before blacking out. No shoes that he could see, but he couldn't have everything. "So you have something to put on when we release you."

"Right," Dean answered. "Any idea when that will be?"

"Depends on how you're doing."

"Okay. How am I doing?" He wanted to get out. And he wanted Jack to tell him something he'd be able to use to convince Sam of it when he woke up.

Jack stood, pulled a stethoscope from his pocket. "That's what I'm here to check," he answered, lifting an eyebrow as though asking permission.

Dean felt himself tense, but nodded.

Jack moved closer, swinging the food cart with the computer farther out of his way before easing the instrument to Dean's chest. Dean managed to move himself forward this time without waking Sam so the doctor could repeat the procedure at his back.

Whether Jack was listening to lungs or heart, Dean wasn't sure, but he tried not to fidget in the ensuing silence. Tried to evaluate the beats of his heart and the intake of his air for himself. He didn't feel anything wrong, but it bothered him—when Jack finally sat back in the chair at Sam's knees—that he couldn't read his face.

"So?" he questioned, feeling uncomfortably scrutinized.

The doctor sighed, peering down at a clipboard he'd pulled off the end of Dean's bed. "Feel dizzy? Any trouble breathing?"

Dean shook his head.

"Have you been eating regularly, getting enough sleep?"

Dean nodded, then added honestly, "Little low on sleep, maybe."

Jack sighed again, marginally dropping his façade. "Your brother told me about your heart condition."

"I don't have a heart condition."

Jack nodded again. "Dr. Norris and I both concluded that last night… to the best of our ability, anyway. But you _did_ have one, according to Sam. You experienced a physical trauma—electrocution—according to your brother, and someone diagnosed you with one. And, the thing is, we can't find another reason for you to have… blacked out like you did."

"It was a mistake," Dean said. "They were wrong."

Jack blinked, and something in his face told Dean he wasn't convinced. "Maybe. You do… _seem_ to be okay. And I can't make you stay here, or make you see a specialist, but I think you should consider it, for your brother's sake, if nothing else. People don't often pass out for no reason."

"Like I said, I haven't been getting enough sleep lately," Dean returned again, lamely. "And you said before… my blood pressure was low—"

"Which can be another indication of heart trauma."

Dean schooled his features, matched Jack's impassive expression. "I appreciate what you've done for me, doc. I'll consider your advice."

The corner of Jack's mouth twitched. "Guess that's all I can ask. And, I guess you'll be getting back to work when you get out of here then? Your investigation?"

Dean nodded, thinking, if the good doctor had done any checking up on them… they were screwed.

"Well, take a cue from your brother. Try to get some rest while you can. If your blood pressure remains normal, we'll probably release you this afternoon."

Dean released the breath he'd been holding.

Jack stood, caught the end of the food cart, ready to swing it back in front of Dean, then stopped cold, staring at the screen instead, impassivity gone from his expression, paleness in its place.

Dean tried to remember what page he'd had open... remembered he'd been acting on his hope of digging up pictures he and Sam could compare and contrast with their memories of the spirits they'd seen. Following a hunch, he'd pulled up Lander's obituaries for the week of the first disappearance. But none of the deaths he'd read about had been odd or unique in any way. No red flags. Not for him anyway. "Something wrong, doc?"

Jack leaned down to look at the screen more closely. "I saw this man."

Dean held his breath for a moment, then spoke, quickly and softly, "What man?" He reached over Sam to drag the computer closer, seeing for himself the picture Jack was staring at. "Where? In the canyon? With Elly?"

Jack looked worried—stunned—and a little unsteady.

"Jack, did you see this man in the canyon when Elly disappeared?"

The doctor finally looked at him. "I couldn't have…"

"But you did. Right?"

"I was… imagining things. I thought… the fog… it made it look like… and… this picture… I couldn't have seen him… he was already dead."

Dean swallowed. Educated types tended to respond worse than others to _the truth is out there_ speech. "But Elly saw him too. Right, Jack? She said you two were in the canyon, you argued, the fog rolled in, and you both saw a man. This man. I'm betting if you took this picture over to her, she'd tell us this was the guy she saw."

"It's impossible… he was… he was walking through things. The fog was playing ticks on us. No one was even really there… or it was someone else."

"It wasn't someone else, Jack, and you know it." Sam stirred against him and Dean instinctively lowered his voice. "Other hikers in the canyon… they saw him too."

Jack was shaking his head.

Sam grunted and rolled his head. He was waking up.

"They did, Jack. They saw him. You saw him. Elly saw him. And I need you to tell me everything you remember, because if you don't, other people are going to see him too. And they may not be as lucky as you and your girlfriend."

Jack turned away, made a sound not unlike laughter.

Sam stilled again, but Dean knew, this time, his brother was awake, listening.

"Jack, Elly said… she told me she thought it spoke to you."

"It?"

"Him."

Jack turned back toward him, watching for something in his face, must have found whatever it was he was looking for because his expression started to change as he sank bonelessly back into the chair. "Other people saw him?" he asked, wary hope lacing the wry question.

"Yes."

"He's real."

"Yes."

"But he's dead. And was dead when I…"

Dean didn't say anything.

"And you believe this?"

"You're the one who saw him. You tell me."

"I can't… I can't tell you… I mean, sometimes, when I even just… I think I might be going crazy." The words had that laughing edge to it, and Dean figured where he used sarcasm to deal, Jack used laughter—humor—which wasn't unlike Charlie, from what he'd learned so far.

"I know. I know you feel that way. Elly feels that way too. But you're not. Neither one of you. And I don't know how else to tell you but… it was real."

Jack's head gave an imperceptible shake. "It's impossible."

"Really? Then, what are the odds of two well adjusted, well educated people—who I'm suspecting don't have a history of mental illness in their families—going crazy at the same place, same time, and in the same way?"

The doctor opened his mouth, closed it, lacing the fingers of one hand through the short hair above his temple. It was a long minute before he answered, but when he did there was something closer to calm in his eyes. "Pretty low," he said. "Without some sort of chemical or other external inducement… pretty impossibly low."

Dean opened his mouth, but the slam of something falling on linoleum and a rising commotion elsewhere in the clinic stopped whatever it was he was about to say.

Jack frowned, rising from the chair, moving quickly to check it out, swinging back another curtain and opening the door from the exam area into the hallway. When he did, Dean could hear what he thought was Charlie's voice amongst a background of broken chatter.

Sam dropped pretense, sitting up straight. His hair was shaggier than normal, and his posture showed the heaviness of his sleep, but his eyes were alert. "What's up?" he asked, gaze shifting out toward the hallway, cacophony of voices dulled with the shutting door.

"Don't know yet," Dean answered, moving to get off the bed.

"Stay here," Sam forestalled, hand to his chest. "I'll check it out."

It didn't exactly hurt, but Dean felt it when Sam moved away.

He didn't dwell on it, focused instead on Sam's order. _Screw that_, he thought, but didn't say it. Sam was already halfway out the room.

* * *

tbc


	22. Chapter 22

**Part 22 **

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996 _

"Dean? You with me, son?"

Dean blinked.

As sharp as his vision was, his limbs were heavy—like he was fighting to move through mud, pins and needles shooting from his fingers and toes and back to his spine with each movement. The jarring of Sammy's nervous bounce on the bed made him wince covertly.

Even his eyelids were heavy.

He blinked again, _slowly_, kept his eyes open, even though it took effort, even though everything he looked at seemed too bright, and too harsh. Keeping his eyes open let him notice things he'd been deprived of for _days_—the room's colors, his brother's face, the visual fact that the IV had, at some point, been removed. And if his eyes closed and stay closed—who knew where that might leave him? Who knew if he'd be able to open them again?

_No_, he'd keep his eyes _open_, whatever it took. Beyond that, he would concentrate on simply drawing air—keeping his lungs moving—slow and steady. In and out. Slow and steady.

"Dean?"

With control, he swallowed, made a sound in his throat—all he could get out. The sound must have been ugly because Sam's eyes darted to his father with an expression of fear. His hands tightened over Dean's arm. "Dad?" he questioned.

"It's okay," their father's voice rumbled, soothing in its loudness. "It's going to be okay."

There was movement after that—Dad moving out from behind him, propping Dean up at an angle using the room's collection of pillows. He sat at Dean's hip when he finished, peering into his face with a subtle, detached expression Dean realized was the precursor to a more official examination. _Follow my finger with your eyes._ _Try to squeeze my hand. Push down with your foot._

At each order, though he knew it was going to hurt, his mind gave the command to move his body a little more—and he gasped each time the shooting tingles followed.

The breathing, at least, was getting easier.

"Easy, Dean, easy. Good job, son. Now, take it slow."

Dean realized the eyes he kept blinking open were still leaking tears. The late recognition bringing awareness of other things he'd been ignoring—the raw thirst in the back of his throat, the grittiness caking the corners of his eyes, the uncomfortable pressure in his gut.

"Dad," he tried. It came out garbled, his tongue not awake enough to wrap fully around the word. His dad was there anyway, looming near, responding to the request in Dean's tone. And, more than that, already seemed to know what Dean needed—as though he'd been anticipating it. John's eyes fluttering over to the cabin's bathroom before Dean's did.

"Okay," he answered—clipped, military in fashion—eyeing Dean with a practical expression. "Easy," he commanded a moment later. "Let me do the work." As if Dean had another choice.

John reached down, positioning his hands to pull Dean up, clearly aware he was about to cause Dean pain. He levered an arm further under Dean's shoulders and paused, staring at Sam's white-knuckled grip on Dean's other arm. "_Sam_," he started briskly, then stopped, cleared his throat. The edge in his voice softened when he spoke again, "_Sammy_. There's a can of soup I left on the counter. Put it in a pan for me and get it on the stove."

"Dad—" Sam began.

"Sammy, I've got to help Dean with something, and when I'm done we're going to have to get some food in him. _Understand_?"

Dean was suddenly and unexpectedly keenly aware of the hollow space in his stomach, he just wasn't entirely certain how he felt about putting food in it.

With something needed and useful to do, Sam kneed his way off the bed, giving his _yes sir_ without further protest.

Dean was watching him dart for the can opener and the soup out of the corner of his eye when John spoke. "On three," he said to Dean—matter of fact and unapologetic about what was to come. He counted quickly, levering Dean upright in one fluid motion.

Dean gasped out an audible moan—the most verbal he'd been since this ordeal began.

He felt a rush of heat crawl up under his hairline, followed by shaky cold. He let his head tilt back against his father's shoulder when he was pulled tightly into the man's chest and tried not to give into the sensations. It was a full battle after that to _not_ close his eyes against the room's spin, and an impossibility to try to make his feet move underneath him, as he was carried the short distance to the bathroom.

When they reached their destination, he got his feet _sort of_ planted below him, and knew privacy was as good as it was going to get when his father kicked the door just more than halfway closed behind them.

Privacy in their family wasn't great even at the best of times, and Dean felt groggy and desperate enough to pretend he didn't care. But even after making that determination, another sound emerged involuntarily from his vocal cords—misery, or something else, he wasn't sure.

John's steadying arms tightened.

Dean swallowed convulsively. He _shouldn't_ need so much help—thought his father shouldn't give it to him so straightforwardly even though he always had—unflinchingly pacing Dean through every illness or injury he'd ever had. But he couldn't really remember those times. All he could think of was _now_. And all he kept thinking was—_all of this shouldn't hurt so much_.

Blood pounded in his head and black spots were dancing before his eyes by the time he finished, graying in the edges of his vision.

He nearly panicked.

He had control over almost nothing, but had absolutely no desire to lose the control he _did_ have. He pushed his eyes wide and refused to let himself blink—felt the burning of dry air on them—and _still_ must have phased out because there were long, lost seconds of time between leaving the bathroom and John getting him back on the bed.

"Dean," his father's stern voice ordered, pulling him back to awareness.

Dean heard the panic in his own breathing as he continued to gasp in and out with short desperate pants.

"You've got to _relax_. Right _now_, kiddo. Take it slow." He rubbed a hand up and down Dean's sternum. The pins and needles continued, but the touch was soothing—as soothing as it'd been while he'd been _out_. "_Breathe_. Just breathe. Breathe _deep_. Take it slow." The harshness gradually left John's tone as he continued the litany, and his voice began to mellow into something gently deeper—uncommon—_like the singing_.

Sammy came back over, knees knocking against the bed frame as he hovered, and listened.

Dean worked on following his father's rhythm, fighting against his panic, fighting for air he didn't think he was getting. His gaze tacked up to his brother's face, and when their eyes caught, held the look for a carefully long moment, sharing fear and hope and reassurance.

_I'm awake now, Sam_. _I'm awake_.

Silently encouraging, Sammy started to breathe with him—both now following their father's calming commands of _in_ and _out_ until _air_ was no longer what Dean was fighting to gain.

And he noticed then, the breathing of all three of them, matched in every way.

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006 _

Dean stood—was unprepared when he swayed and had to rapidly clutch the edge of the bed until the tiny sparkles lacing the edge of his vision went away. When they did, he snagged his clothes and lowered himself into the chair Jack had vacated to pull them on.

Just getting his jeans on took more effort than he would have thought. He bent forward after he finished, sitting still—fighting the sluggishness in his limbs and the itching at the back of his mind he couldn't quite shake. And not just itching, but whooshing, humming.

He drew air through his nose and blinked steadily until the feeling calmed.

By the time he was tugging at the gown ties at the back of his neck, Sam was already there again, moving Dean's hands away so he could untie them himself. "Something happened at the house," he explained. "I don't know what exactly, but they're all out there talking about flickering lights and flying glass." Sam grabbed Dean's t-shirt, turned it right-way-out, found the neck and held it out to push over Dean's head, backing off only momentarily at Dean's scowl.

"Everyone okay?"

"Charlie's a little cut up. Jack's stitching him up now. He's kinda freaked."

"Charlie?"

"Him too, but I was talking about Jack."

"Yeah. What about the others?"

"Confused, I guess. I didn't ask too many questions yet, figured you'd want to be with me to get the full story."

"Let me guess… they think it was another earthquake?" Dean got his arm stuck in the sleeve. Sam moved in to release the tangle, but paused after pulling back the material to look at something on his shoulder that Dean couldn't see. "Sam?"

"Uh," Sam started, letting go as Dean pushed his arm through, adjusted the rest of the shirt himself, and stood.

Sam stepped back but his eyes tracked to Dean's. "You're still not looking so good…"

"Save it. I'm not staying here while we have work to do."

Sam blew air out his nose, gave a defeated, succinct nod. "Yeah, okay."

Feet still bare, Dean followed Sam out the door and down the hall. At the end of it, they hesitated, catching each other with a fortifying look before pushing through the large swinging doors into the waiting room.

Sam's friends were scattered around the central point of the admitting desk, different variations of confusion etched onto their faces. Sam nudged Dean's elbow, jerking his head toward where Jack and a nurse leaned over Charlie—the latter's voice tumbling out in harsh confused whispers they couldn't entirely make out. _"…it was nuts. And… Jack, I think you… at Sara 'cause… like flipped out… maybe hit her head. Ouch! What are you doing?"_

"_It's a topical anesthetic. Hold still. You need stitches_." Jack's voice carried over to them more clearly than his brother's.

Sam nudged Dean again, lifting an eyebrow. He obviously wanted to go over where he could better hear what was being said—where he could ask questions that could help figure things out with their ghost—_ghosts_—whatever.

Dean folded his arms across his chest, gave Sam a nod telling him that _yes_ he'd be okay, even without Sam two freakin' feet from his side.

It was likely Sam also wanted to check Charlie's health for himself. Charlie, and the rest of these kids were people Sam had spent a significant portion of his life with—not just another random amalgamation of people they were thanklessly trying to help.

Sam returned Dean's nod, and moved to hover over Charlie with Donna, asking questions in a voice that _didn't_ carry far enough for Dean to hear.

Dean almost stepped closer, to be part of the conversation himself, but didn't, found himself watching it instead—caught with the same feelings of curiosity and weirdness he'd been feeling since day one of their arrival into this previously barely glimpsed part of Sam's world.

Right now, Sam was every bit _their job_. Dean could tell because of the wrinkle between Sam's eyebrows that always appeared when he had a specific focus he didn't want to get sidetracked from.

The corner of Dean's lip twitched, almost lifting to a smile. Sam's expression was so classically _him_. The frown line had been a part of him ever since he was little. It showed up when he was focused, when he was sympathetic, when he was trying to be understanding and when Dean teased him. Showed up when he teased him _now_ like it had when he'd teased him _before_.

Dean remembered—when they'd been checking out those killer bugs—how the frown line had shown up, familiar and welcome, when he'd conned Sam down into the hole where the worker had died. It'd been nice that, despite their time apart, the core parts of their previous relationship were recognizable, recoverable—that some parts of the previous Sam were still there.

That despite Stanford and all that went with it, Sam was still Sam.

As he continued to watch he saw Sam's expression shift, watched Sam's business face melt into something else as he mumbled to Jack and responded to a question from Donna.

The corner of Dean's mouth curled down again.

It was worrisome in a way—the way Sam _hadn't_ become nostalgic, how he _hadn't_ started talking of _real life_ and _normal_ and the greatness of the Not Winchesters.

Dean had been expecting it.

There were moments, these past few days, when he'd felt Sam watching him, wanting to see his reaction to a certain story his friends were telling. Wanting to share those parts of his life with Dean in the only way he could. Which felt right—felt okay—but Dean couldn't help thinking about all he and Sam ignored about their time apart, couldn't help worrying about how quickly Sam had gone from _Get me out of this life_ to _Let me at the damn demon_.

Most of all, Dean couldn't stop thinking about what Blake had said last night, in the kitchen, an eternity ago—before he and Blake had sparred, before he'd passed out and ended up here.

The words rolled over him for what felt like the four hundredth time as he continued to watch Sam interact with his buddies.

_Hey, Dean, did Sam ever tell you about the time he went to the hospital last year?_

Blake had waited to ask the question, waited until after Dean had stepped into the kitchen, waited until he'd been handed food, waited until he'd settled himself against the counter and started eating. Of course, Sam hadn't told Dean any such thing, and that fact had been written openly in the rawness of his eyes.

And it was too late by then—too late for Dean to step out, to walk away, to go back upstairs and wait for Sam—too late to do anything but let the conversation happen.

The question was pointed—calculated. Dean had known it. Blake had known it. And both had known Dean couldn't move away from it. The second it was asked Dean had wanted to _know_. _Of course_ he'd wanted to know. He'd looked at Blake and stayed silent. Because by then, Blake already had him—with one question he'd had him—and Dean's silence had spoken for itself.

_It's a good story, you'll like this one. Sam, Zack—do you know Zack?—and Charlie played intramural basketball when Sam was still at Stanford. One night, Sam got himself slammed into the court during this killer game. He went down hard, right under the basket. Zack and this guy on the other team came down and landed right on top of him. _

_Sam was still out cold when we got to the hospital behind the ambulance. We found out later he had a concussion and three broken ribs._

The incident Blake described was over—finished long before Sam had hit the road with Dean again. Not a mark on his body to testify that it'd even happened. Still, the fear of Sam _hurt_ when Dean hadn't known, when he couldn't have done anything about it, was his every-fear. And just the description of it Blake had been giving caused Dean's stomach to tighten, his jaw to clench.

Blake hadn't noticed. Or, more than likely, he had, and found it to be just the reaction he'd wanted. Regardless, he'd continued talking, which was okay, because—at _that _point—Dean had _needed_ him too.

_When Sam finally woke up—later that night—he didn't care about his injuries. He just wanted to make sure Jessica hadn't called you or your dad. He kept saying it—over and over and over again. _

_The funny thing is Jess couldn't have called even if she'd wanted to. She didn't have your number because Sam never gave it to her. His emergency contact numbers listed only her and Charlie—we kept telling him that, but he wouldn't listen. The doctor almost had to sedate him because he wouldn't calm down about it, just kept asking us again and again—kept telling us not to call you. _

_It was weird, you know. And I just can't help but wonder… if you two are so close, why wouldn't he have wanted you there?_

Dean had swallowed, _hard_. There was nothing he could say. Nothing he could've said. No way he could even explain or justify. Their family was messed up, but that didn't mean…_ What did that mean?_

A moment later another of Sam's friends had stepped in—said something about them not knowing the whole situation. A moment after that, another someone said something else about it not being their business. And then Sam had walked in, blessedly killing words that had, all at once, become too loud and too jarring for Dean to handle on his own.

"Look who's all better."

Dean startled. His eyes shot left to see Blake leaning against the clinic wall, near the doors he and Sam had just come through. He felt deeply unsettled for not having noticed him sooner.

"Have a nice nap?" Blake continued.

Dean dropped his chin an inch closer to his chest, felt his muscles tense but blanked his features, pointedly ignoring the taunt beneath Blake's words. Just the same, he felt Sam's eyes shoot toward him then trickle over to Blake—saw the stiffening in his brother's posture and knew Sam had caught the taunt as well.

"Blake," Kim tempered, shaking her head and stepping closer to him, voice ringing softly as her sympathetic eyes drifted over to Sam and back again.

Blake glanced at her briefly—quickly changing his expression before saying in a mildly chagrined tone, "I was just teasing, Kim. Jack already said there was nothing wrong with him. And after tonight, I figure we all need to lighten up a little."

"Maybe some of us aren't feeling ready to _lighten up_ yet," Donna said sardonically from her stance between Sam's rigid posture and the undaunted nurse who was helping Jack tend to a half-hidden Charlie.

"Right, Donna, like _your_ brand of sarcasm is really what's helping," Blake flung back. Just the same, a moment later, he swiveled his head to Dean with apologetic eyes. "You know I didn't mean anything by it. So, no offense… no hard feelings, right?"

Dean shrugged. Felt stiff. He didn't buy it. Friend of Sam's or not, he would openly admit with no qualms that he hated this guy. And it bothered him immensely that this _snake_ knew things about his brother, his brother's girlfriend, his brother's life—_knew_ things about _Sam_ that Dean never would. Not fully. Not even if Sam told him about them.

He hadn't been there.

And Sam hadn't wanted him to be.

He glanced at Sam, emotions striking like a sob trapped in his chest. He was fully aware of the hand he lifted to press over his heart, aware of his brother watching him do it, and still, couldn't have stopped it if he tried. He could see the words on the edge of Sam's mouth as he stepped closer, reaching for Dean's elbow, but didn't get to hear what his brother had been about to say because Sara beat Sam to speaking, somehow suddenly there, right in front of him.

The humming in his mind grew sharper as something unnatural flashed in her eyes. "You weren't supposed to wake up," she said softly, fiercely. "Like before."

He flinched as she reached to not quite touch his cheek, he and Sam moving back with equal strides.

"Get out of her," Sam whispered, hand tightening on Dean's elbow.

Dean could feel all eyes in the room center on them.

The lights flickered.

Outside, it'd started to rain, the day having grown dark—the hard, unsteady rhythm striking at the clinic's plexiglass windows.

Sara stepped closer, whisper deepened and baring teeth. "You were supposed to know what would happen when they finally left you. I knew they would. You knew they would. Just like _her_. You were supposed to know what it would be like and _finish_ it. Halfway there and you didn't follow it through!"

The lights blinked faster.

Thunder boomed ominously close.

Sara sneered and reached for him again.

Roughly, Sam pulled him back, stepping in front of him to catch Sara's wrist.

"Bastard," she swore.

The lights died on a final flicker—lightning all that lit the room a split second before thunder deafened them.

Dean stumbled, knees hitting the linoleum floor with painful force. He held his eyes agonizingly wide, like he could stave off the need to pass out by sheer will. Which he did—catching himself with his hands when the humming in his mind grew and the room spun out of control—splaying his fingers, bracing, not letting himself topple over.

When the humming died, and the spinning stopped, and the generators kicked on the emergency lights, he was in the same position, pale and shaking, but still there—_with it_ and awake. Unlike Sara, who lay unconscious, held awkwardly by Sam, the two collapsed together in a heap at Dean's knees.

* * *

tbc


	23. Chapter 23

**Part 23**

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006_

Whether by providence or luck, they ended up in the same room at the Pronghorn Lodge they'd stayed in their first night in town.

Of course, it looked completely different, with all the articles and papers pinned to the wall—the map Sam had dug out of Dean's jacket pocket taped in the very center, red and yellow headed pins sticking out of it, some tied together by thin lines of colored string. Yellow marked any significant location from the 1996 events, including the cabin they'd raided back then and the rental cabins they'd stayed in with their father. Red marked everything else.

Arms locked around bent knees, Dean stared at the collage from the bed Sam wanted him to stay on—_as if getting rest was really the problem_. _Not_ getting rest being the most logical goal in Dean's mind.

The patterns shown on the map—if they could be called patterns—were hazy at best. But they were also better than nothing, and it felt good to have them splayed out front of them like this. Just like they'd always done—like Dad had always done.

Dean blinked his eyes away from the map, back to his Dad's journal, open on the bed, re-reading the entry regarding casseroles. _Varying ability to operate independently_, it said. The ghosts had only _varying ability to operate independently_—three in the car, but only one in the driver's seat, the other two wanting it back. At least, that was the picture Dean got in his head.

He sighed, brushing a hand up through his hair, rubbing at the back of his neck.

He wondered how Sam was doing—hoping his little brother was sticking to the tasks he'd said he was going to stick to and wasn't taking on anything he shouldn't handle alone—in some misguided attempt to protect his older brother.

He wondered too about Sam's friends, who hadn't gone back to the house—had taken up residence in several of the Lodge's other empty rooms instead.

Jack had insisted.

And the others hadn't exactly protested. No one wanted to go back to the house when they didn't know if it was safe. When they didn't know exactly what had happened in the first place. _Had the Stanford kids really thought it was another earthquake?_ Hearing their conversations, watching their faces, he'd thought some of them were finally getting the feeling that the earthquake theory didn't quite cut it, agreeing with it only because they had nothing else in their frame of reference to replace it with.

They'd been quick to assume Sara's incoherent confrontation with Dean, and subsequent short-term memory loss, were the results of a bump on the head she'd gotten back at the house, when everything had been flying around. And it's not like Dean could expect them to conclude any different. People didn't just jump to the logical conclusions of ghosts and possession when they existed in a society that staunchly practiced denying it.

But Sara was another question mark altogether. Why would the ghost possess her? Usually, like demons, ghosts were forced to be selective about who they possessed. They couldn't just jump into _any_body.

Maybe Sara had been extra stressed about that exam she'd been studying for. Or maybe she'd just flipped out more than the rest of them when they'd been in the canyon the other night. Maybe the good health habits he kept hearing the others nag her about included the practice of some sort of mind-blanking new-age, give-your-soul-to-the-universe meditation.

One way or another, she'd become a sort of conduit—if not for all the ghosts, at least for _his_ ghost. There was no question, now, that the latcher from 1996 was still around—had never really been wasted, had found a way to come back, or just had a piece of herself stuck in the casserole all along, waiting, then using Sara to follow them. Moving with her from place to place—the canyon, the house, the clinic.

There was a string on the board for that too. Something about Sara, or possibly Dean, giving it control—making it stronger.

The sound of shuffling feet outside the room's door broke into his thoughts, made Dean turn his head. A moment later he recognized the sound of a key in the lock and was calmed to see his unharmed little brother when the handle turned. "Hey," he greeted, shuttering his relief, having not yet shed some of the off kilter intensity he'd woken up with. "What'd you find out?"

"You were right," Sam answered, shaking his jacket off before stepping fully out of the rainy afternoon. He was careful to not disturb the line of salt he'd earlier arched in front of the doorway—drawing a thick line with such careful precision it'd made Dean's eyes roll. "Both Elsa and Nora Prisal were listed in the town's old census records."

Sam disappeared into the bathroom, and emerged a second later rubbing a towel over his damp hair. "I couldn't find a death date or burial site for either one of them, but the earliest census listing them is from 1955. The latest is 1962." He pulled some rolled papers from his back pocket. Tossing the towel aside, he moved to pin the new information up with the rest of the organized chaos on the wall.

"And the other?" Dean asked, watching him. Sam's movements were antsy but precise—the way he got when he felt they were getting close to solving something for good.

"You were right about him too. Earl Taggart died of natural causes—heart failure, according the coroner reports. Pretty expected… guy was 87."

"He's not listed as husband or anything to the Prisals?"

"No. But check this out."

Dean took the paper Sam held out to him, glancing over it. "Property deed?"

Sam smirked, jerked his chin forward and back in the nod he used whenever he was trying to make a point. "I had a hunch and decided to follow it. The cabin we went to ten years ago is _owned_ by Earl Taggart… or _was _until he died and it got turned over to the county. Guy didn't leave a will, had no known relatives… lived like a hermit." Sam reached forward and flicked the paper in Dean's hands with his index finger. "But I think this proves he wasn't always that way. We can probably safely assume he's the mysterious boyfriend from the legend. And if he was her killer, it would explain why our '96 ghost was able to re-manifest when he died, assuming she was somehow casseroled with him all along. And if she was somehow _attached_ to him, or latched to him, all this time, it could explain why he became a hermit. Only gap is, he didn't live or die anywhere near the south fork where everyone keeps seeing him."

Dean lifted his eyebrows, pressed his lips together, let one corner of his mouth twitch upward. "Good work, College Boy."

"Thanks—but it doesn't explain why the south fork has become the hotspot. The cabin our first ghost was buried in was in the north fork so…"

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Have any hunches that will tell us Earl's exact role in that?"

"Well, I don't know about the south fork, but I'm kinda assuming he's the one that put whichever Prisal we already salted and burned under those floorboards in the first place."

"We're both assuming that, genius. Do you have any proof?"

"Better. I have the location of the body." Sam tossed another paper at Dean. "His body. I figured, if we knew where he was buried, why not just dig him up? Salt and burn—take him out of the equation."

"Problem. We salted and burned one of the Prisals in '96 and she's still in the mix."

"Yeah, I know, but she's clearly not as strong as she was."

Sam moved to the map, shifting his weight from foot to foot in front of it. Dean could tell he was about to use his lecturing voice—the one that made it too easy to see Sam as something in the normal world—the voice that painted a picture of him in front of a college classroom, teaching law or _whatever_. The voice that would have made Sam a good lawyer. Or professor. Or judge.

"I've been thinking about it. If these ghosts _are_ a casserole, they are _all_ connected," Sam spoke. "Just to keep this straight, let's call the Prisal we already salted and burned, Prisal One. One way or another, we can assume she was involved with Earl. If any of the legends are accurate, he was involved with her sister, too. I think the sister—Prisal Two—is the south fork tie in. She disappeared at the same time. Maybe he killed her, too. Maybe her body is somewhere down in the south fork, or—"

"Makes sense, but why hasn't anyone seen her?" Dean questioned. "There was no haunting in that canyon until after Earl died."

"I know. But, you know how doing construction on an old house, or even just having new people move in can awaken spirits?"

Dean nodded, thinking all the curious people going in and out of the Prisal cabin over the years had probably awakened Prisal One. Prisal Two hadn't been disturbed yet.

"The point is that when something changes for the spirit that makes them angry or something, it brings them forth."

"So Earl's death awakened Prisal Two."

Sam wasn't finished. "Now, just guessing, but, going back to Earl. Let's assume he and Prisal One were involved. She finds out he's going at it with the sister, or whatever. They argue, he threatens to leave her or she threatens to leave him. He overpowers her, puts her under the floor."

"Kind of an… _if I can't have you, no one can_ kinda thing?"

"Yeah, and I'm guessing, based on the experience of the other Prisal One victims through the years and…" Sam hesitated, shifted his weight, swallowed, "…and _your_ experience especially, that she was put under there _alive_. Based on the timing of the victims, I'd say it took her two days to die. Which is why you were…" Sam stopped to swallow again. Dean wished he'd stop doing it. "…which is why you were _awake_ in '96. If she was latching to you, and wanted you to feel or experience what she experienced, then..."

"Yeah." Dean thought about that and shivered unconsciously. "I remember Dad talking about a deadline. That must have been what he meant."

Sam looked at Dean, shook himself, and continued. "Right… and… well, I'm still guessing but—the floor boards were slatted, so Prisal One could probably hear what was going on, would have had plenty of air, but still died in two days. Theoretically, she could've held out longer. So, I think she might have had an injury of some kind, been poisoned… that Earl did something to her before he put her down there to make sure she couldn't get out."

"She was hurt in someway," Dean nodded, speaking without thinking, not realizing what he'd indicated until he looked up to see Sam's white-faced expression.

"How do you know?"

Dean groaned, unlocked his arms from around his knees and slumped back against the headboard. "I just meant… you're probably right… that she was maybe hurt in some way."

"Dean," Sam stopped him. "Did it hurt? Were you hurt?"

Dean grunted, banging his head backward. "Ah, come on, Sam, will you just drop it? Your I-carry-the-guilt-of-the-world quota has been met for the day. Let it go already."

Sam shifted his head forward and back in another point-making dramatic nod—adding emphasis to his glare and visibly twitching jaw muscle. Dean hated when Sam adopted this pose. It annoyed him because it was hard to counter—like the repeating thing Sam did, as though if he asked the same question enough times in a row Dean would magically be forced to answer. Though to be fair, it must work on him, because their dad did it too.

"Did. It. Hurt?" Sam bit out again, right on cue with Dean's thoughts.

"_No_," Dean shot tightly in what was such an obvious lie, they both stayed silent several seconds after.

It wouldn't get left there. Dean wasn't that lucky.

And part of him _wanted_ to tell Sam. Just in _case_. In case it happened again. Because the memories were now so sharp the fear was tangible_._ What if it _did_ happen again?

But even that didn't convince him he should tell. Sam didn't really need to know and Dean wasn't sure how Sam would react. Wasn't sure because navigating his brother these days wasn't nearly as easy as it had been in the past.

Everything was more difficult since the heart-thing. _Hell—_since _before _that. Since the phone call from Dad, since their argument about it, since Dr. Ellicott and the haunted asylum, since their fight about following orders, Dad, Jess, and _you don't know how I feel_, since _Mom_ and a hundred other things they never talked about. Since hunting—since Sam leaving for college in the first place.

"The whole time?" Sam asked softly.

Dean groaned again. _This_ tone was worse—not demanding or indignant, but worried. Ridiculously gentle, followed by woeful, soulful eyes and… _damn it_. "Not the whole time," he answered. Then shrugged—glancing up after a subsequent silence to gauge his brother's reaction.

"When?"

It was on the tip of Dean's tongue to say it…

_You're my brother and I'd die for you, but_…

But he didn't say it—felt he probably owed Sam more than flippancy after all the flaying of nerves. But would telling Sam the rest of it just flay the kid more? He sighed, weighed his thoughts—spoke. "It hurt," he admitted, "but then… you… or Dad would…" It sounded silly, it sounded disturbing, but Dean didn't know how else to explain, "…_touch me_ and it would go away."

"Touch you?"

Dean felt his ears burn. "Yeah."

Sam moved forward and took a seat on the other bed, facing Dean—waiting.

Evidently his explanation hadn't been enough.

Dean rolled his eyes, but complied. "You or Dad would put a hand on my… over my heart... or on my head… and it wouldn't hurt anymore. Hell, you'd even just… put your shoe against my ankle and I'd feel better." He rolled his head against the headboard, angling toward Sam, watching him process. He could almost see him tracking his own memories of that time, cataloging all the instances when no one had been touching Dean… which was _so_ not the point!

"_Oh God_," Sam said, a drawn second later—as near a prayer as either of them usually got. And for several more seconds, Sam looked like he was going to be sick, posture slumped. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so sorry."

"You didn't…" Dean paused, grunted, swung his legs off the bed to match his brother, knee to knee, leaning forward to back his point—after all, despite everything, he _knew_ Sam, and he had techniques too. He cleared his throat commandingly. "Listen, Captain Culpability, you _didn't_ know. There was no way you could've. And _most_ of the time, you _were_ there. You and dad, but mostly you. I appreciated it, Sam. I still do. So knock it off, okay?"

Sam stared at him.

Dean kept his eyes steady until Sam's posture relaxed, at least a little. Then he tapped the side of Sam's knee reassuringly for good measure.

But his brother wasn't finished. "That's why… when I woke up in the canyon the other night… you had your hand on my chest. I thought you were just holding me down, but you were making sure… weren't you?"

"Yeah," Dean admitted. "I was making sure. Now, are we done with this? Because, if I remember right, we were trying to divide and conquer a latching-casserole-ghost problem that's become a serious pain in my ass."

There it was—his little brother finally cracked a smile—small, but there. "Almost," he said, catching Dean's wrist before Dean could stand. "I want to know… I need to know why she picked _you_ and how Dad knew she had."

"I don't know, Sam."

His brother's look said plainly, _don't give me that_. "I remember you and dad fighting… after we checked the haunted cabin out that first night. He wanted you to take the car and drive to Colorado. Wait for us to join you. He knew something then."

Dean blinked, memory clicking into place. _That's_ what the fight had been about. He remembered now.

He _remembered_.

No order his dad had given him had ever scared him more.

"I remember it because… it was like, the only time I remember you ever questioning him… disobeying him," Sam confessed.

Dean rolled his eyes, glowering. "Will you stop with the _good little soldier_ stuff?" His voice was gruff. It was the one thing Sam picked at that always touched a nerve, tingled right to the core. He didn't _know_ another way—he _wasn't_ Sam and wished Sam would accept that.

Sam held a hand up. "I'm not trying to give you hard time. I think this is important. In the journal, Dad said he fought with you, wanted to leave you behind, but then said that just made it worse. What was he talking about?"

Dean shrugged. "It was a long time ago, Sam. I don't remember."

"It's important, Dean. In what Missouri sent us… latchers are all about emotion. It's how they're made, like they're obsessed with it. You were probably right yesterday when you said you thought the ghost was amplifying my emotions—my fear."

The words quickly reminded Dean that _twice _something in the south fork had gone after Sam. And it hadn't been in the same way it'd gone after Dean.

"It's how casserole ghosts are started—heightened emotions, tied together. If you can remember what you were feeling, maybe we'll know what she was after. It could help," Sam pressed.

Dean flipped his legs back up on the bed, turned himself back to profile from his brother.

"You know, we've faced latchers before. We just didn't know what they were. Ellicott," Sam stumbled over the name, then cleared his throat, "Ellicott was a latcher. He was obsessed with anger. And out of all of us in the asylum that night—" Sam looked down, visibly uncomfortable with what he was admitting.

Dean cocked his head slightly. They'd never talked about this. They'd both known there were parts in what Sam had said to him that were real and parts that were not. Dean hadn't wanted to know which those parts really were, and Sam had wanted to deny it all.

"My feelings made the best target. I was just… so _tired_, and _frustrated_. I wanted to find Dad. I wanted to have _answers_, and I wanted someone to blame. And there was only you. You were the only one with me. Dad, and the demon—and everything I was really angry with—were nowhere. Ellicott knew that. It's why he lured _me_ down to the basement instead of you. He infected me, mixed his own anger with what was… a little resentment. When you salted and burned his bones, the infection reversed."

Dean closed his eyes.

He knew it'd been hard for Sam to admit what he had, knew it was meant to make him reciprocate in some way, but he still hated it, still hesitated, and the silence that followed was long and drawn.

"I was afraid of losing you or Dad," he finally admitted. The feelings tightening his chest sharpening his tone when he said the rest of it. "And there was no _way_ in _hell _I was going to sit behind somewhere, or go off alone, and wonder and wait for the two of you to show up or come back for me. I wasn't going to sit somewhere and wonder if something happened to the two of you while I wasn't there, whether or not I would've been able to stop it."

He opened his eyes to see Sam nodding with a gentle expression. "Sara, back at the clinic when she was possessed, said you were supposed to know what it was like when 'they' left you. She was talking about me and dad." Sam didn't make it a question. "And then she said—just like her. I thought she was talking about the Prisals… about maybe one sister leaving the other, but she was talking about mom, wasn't she?"

Dean couldn't stop himself. He winced.

"That's why Dad knew the ghost would go for you… you lost mom. I mean, even the words from the song… you lost her… and you were afraid of losing anyone else."

Dean closed his eyes again, felt the tightening in his heart, and dragged his knuckles up to his breastbone.

"_Dean!_" Sam moved over to him, caught his wrist and pulled it away.

"I'm okay," Dean answered, blinking. "I'm not going to pass out." But when he looked up, Sam's eyes were afraid. "Really."

"Okay," Sam said, unconvinced, but slowly let him go.

Dean reached out to stop him, working his mouth open. "You lost her too, Sam."

"I know," Sam stood up straight, looking horrifically tall from Dean's slouch. "But I also never really had her in the first place. For you… everything changed for you when Mom died." Sam's throat worked. He ducked his head then lifted it again. "I don't remember life with her. It's always been different for me."

Dean closed his mouth.

There wasn't much he could say to that, wasn't much he wanted to say. He wasn't ready to verbalize a grief he'd tried to lock in silence long ago. That still made the back of his eyes burn when he thought about it. That came sometimes when he just tried to say her name. And dwelling on it would get them nowhere. He cleared his throat, roughly. "So we know Prisal One was afraid of being alone… of being… left. Let's get back to figuring out what the other two in the casserole are after, huh?" He tried to make the prompt lighthearted but all the serious talking had coated the room with heaviness that lingered and pulled.

"Right," Sam answered, after a dragging second.

Dean stood and swayed immediately.

Instantly, his brother was there—catching him before he could fall.

He blinked away the haze, gingerly taking his own weight back. "Just keeping you on your toes." He grinned. "Nice reflexes, by the way." Then he braced himself for what had become Sam's number one lecture.

It didn't come.

"Good thing they are, 'cause right now, yours suck," Sam said instead.

Dean chuckled, broke Sam's hold on his elbow, and made his way over to the maps and papers, trying to re-thread the string of thought they'd broken from.

"Hey, Dean?"

"What?"

"Do me a favor, huh?"

"What's that?"

"Just… no more secrets until this thing is over. Okay?"

Dean returned a halfhearted nod. He understood why Sam was asking but— "Dude, I'm so not telling you what happened when Joshua took me to Mexico. You've been asking since you were _fourteen_. Like a dog with a frikin' bone, man. Let it go."

Sam laughed and walked over to join him. Dean kept his back to him for a moment, lest Sam see his face and realize he'd been put off. There were just some things that _telling_ wouldn't make better. Some things that were his responsibility and his alone. Some things he really _did_ need to keep to himself.

He looked back a second later to watch the wrinkle appear between Sam's eyebrows as he hunched over the laptop on the table, reviewing the information Missouri had sent them. There were dark circles settled deeply below his eyes, framed by a greyish but contrastingly flush. Clearly the few hours of sleep he'd grabbed that morning hadn't been enough.

Dean shuffled left a few inches, reaching out to lightly shove the side of Sam's head. "Why don't you let me do that? Take a nap," he suggested.

Sam angled his gaze up, considering. His brother's eyes were starting to look bloodshot. The night had been rough on Sam, and the day hadn't helped. Dean could tell his little brother wanted to, but didn't think he should. He let his facial expression sharpen. "Get some sleep, Sam."

Sam caught his lip in his teeth, released it with an outward breath and cowed to Dean's order—stood up and walked over to the bed, already kicking off his shoes. He flopped backwards, pulling a pillow free from the covers before looking back at Dean. "What about you?" he asked.

"Hey, I _slept_ last night," Dean gestured with a smirk.

"Not funny, dude," Sam scowled, rolling away from him, settling. His head twisted back less than a second later. "Don't leave the room," he mumbled, already drifting.

Dean took Sam's place at the computer. Jack would be coming back to speak with them, but hopefully not to soon. And hopefully Sam would stay asleep until he did.

* * *

tbc


	24. Chapter 24

**Part 24**

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996_

Dean was sitting up against the headboard—where he'd been propped just before his father had coaxed half a bowl of generic soup into him, repeating, "I've got it, son," every time Dean had fought to lift his hands to help. Against the headboard—where he'd stayed after he'd felt his stomach flip and shook his head when John tried to get him to drink a little more.

Sammy, hovering on the sidelines, watched the proceedings intently, alert to Dean's jerky attempts at moving—alert also to every hitch in his breathing. His face turning sulky with worry when Dean refused the rest of the soup, turning bright eyes to their Dad with an expression that clearly revealed how serious a situation he thought this might be.

John only sighed—finally setting the bowl aside. "He'll eat more next time," he said to Sam, ruffling the mop of tangled hair. His little brother relaxed but Dean didn't. He didn't like the way his father was looking at him. Didn't like it a second later when John moved one hand to his shoulder, and slid the other beneath him, making as if to lay him down again.

Dean grunted in alarmed protest, fumbling ill working hands against his father's chest—making his head shake forcefully from side to side, uncaring of the pain that came with the exaggerated motion.

Possibly surprised by the unexpected struggle, John backed off, but kept his hands to Dean's shoulders—piercing him with a stern but indulgent look. "Dean. You need to rest, kiddo."

Dean averted his gaze but shook his head once more—emphatically.

"His breathing's going funny again," Sam spoke up gravely.

Dean shifted his gaze to glare at him, tired of being spoken about like he was still presumed unconscious—like he wasn't sitting right in front of them. It made it worse that Sammy was right. His breathing had turned shallow. He fought the constriction building in his chest by trying to consciously draw breath—long and slow. Knew his dad was scrutinizing his attempts closely, watching for the moment Dean floundered, watching for the moment when Dean proved he couldn't handle this on his own. But he brought himself under control without aid—chanced meeting his Dad's eyes and set his jaw.

John's face had softened.

He gave Dean's shoulders a squeeze, then let go of him, leaving him sitting up like he'd wanted. Dean breathed, feeling his chest relax—leniency wasn't something he was used to getting from his father. He still ached, still felt stiff, and the shaky tiredness from two days of vivid awareness and no actual rest was worsening. His father could probably see that as well as Dean could feel it. He _needed_ sleep. But until the need for it outgrew the terror of it, he didn't plan on doing it.

His dad moved away, tossing the remote control to Sam before settling himself at the kitchenette table with a newspaper. Sammy picked the device up and moved closer, crawling onto the bed, flipping himself around to sit next to Dean before toeing his shoes off and tossing them onto the floor. "Want to watch something?" he asked—whisper low, as though he thought he could damage Dean by speaking too loud.

"Mmm," Dean started to mumble—and settled for a careful nod.

Sam clicked on the power, started flipping earnestly through the channels, leaving the television's volume just lower than his voice had been. Eventually, he settled on something with explosions and cheesy special effects he presumably thought Dean would like, but Dean couldn't identify what it was. He had to keep blinking at the screen just to keep it in focus. After a few minutes of blinking and staring, he unconsciously found himself slumping a fraction of an inch sideways, just far enough for the outside of his arm to settle against Sam's shoulder. The touch was comforting, but he felt guilty for the continued need.

He was gratified when, moments later, Sam copied the lean, eventually dropping his head to Dean's shoulder completely. Not long after that, Dean could tell his brother had fallen asleep—an occasional whistle sounding through his nose. And though he stayed pointedly awake himself—expending all his remaining energy to keep his eyes open and staring at the television—he never did figure out what the movie was about.

Not long after, he was startled when John was suddenly looming over him again. "That's enough, Dean—time for you to sleep."

Once more, he reached down to shift him. And this time, when Dean grunted in protest, John didn't pause, just moved more quickly, pulling pillows out from behind him and easing him down flat to the mattress in succinct, easy motions.

Next to him, Sam stirred, shoved his legs out, lifted an arm, and flopped onto his side.

"_Dad_—" Dean forced the rough word out on instinct, like flinging an arm up to block a punch.

John paused on it, stopped for a moment to consider him, then shook his head. "_No_, son. You _have_ to sleep. I can tell when you're past your limit and you've been fighting the need to sleep ever since you woke up."

Dean swallowed tightly—pulled in a quick, deep breath to control the fear, knowing it wouldn't help his case if he were to start hyperventilating again. "I don't want to," he said finally, working his mouth awkwardly around the words, well aware he sounded six.

"Too bad," John returned firmly, shifting a heavy hand to Dean's chest when he made a pointless attempt to sit back up. "_Sleep_, Dean. That's an order."

Dean halted automatically at the command in John's voice. "_Yes sir_," he mumbled. It wasn't the response he'd wanted to give, but it was so ingrained in him he couldn't seem to find another.

His dad must have seen the desperation in his expression because his voice abruptly softened. "Dean, you _need_ to sleep—your body needs the rest and you won't get back to full strength unless you give your body what it needs."

Dean bit his lip. His eyes blinked shut without his command. He opened them violently wide afterwards, emitting an involuntary whimper.

"Son?" Deep concern.

He clenched his hands into fists, stared at the ceiling and tried to keep it in focus. He was losing this battle. He already knew there was no way to win it—no way he could stay awake indefinitely, but— "Will I wake up again?"

His question was met with total silence.

Dean held his own breath, wondering if he might get reprimanded for displaying what was clearly a juvenile fear. He expected at the very least for his father to simply repeat his order—like he did on all those rare occasions Dean didn't obey him right away. Instead, the silence lengthened.

The restraining hand left Dean's chest and Dean noted no pain flooded into him when it did.

His father reached across him, looking big above him as his arms grasped Sammy, manhandling his little brother until he no longer hogged the bed's middle. Dean was next to be shifted over, which confused him until his dad sat circumspectly in the empty space he'd created, causing the bed to creak comfortingly. His knuckles rubbed at Dean's head. "Go to sleep, son," he ordered again—but the harshness Dean expected wasn't there. "You'll wake up again. I'll make sure of it."

The knuckles continued to rub soothingly, then opened to become a hand skimming back through his hair again and again in hypnotic rhythm.

Dean couldn't fight it anymore.

He fell asleep.

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006_

Sam moved when he dreamed.

He'd been the same when he was little. And in the months since they'd joined back together, Dean had become even more adept at picking up the signs. Especially since Sam dreamed a lot more now than he had then. Dean knew not all movement meant dreams, and not all dreams were nightmares.

He knew also, Sam didn't always wake up from the ones that were. Most of the time, Dean didn't wake him up either. Because, for a while there, bad sleep was better for his brother than no sleep at all.

Just the same, he stayed alert to the signs.

So when one of Sam's legs shifted across the hotel room bed, Dean looked over and waited to see if more significant movement would follow.

None did.

Dean let his eyes linger an extra long second or two before returning to whatever it was he was trying to read—which was difficult, because the computer screen in front of him kept blinking in and out of focus, resulting in the repeated need to rub his eyes, or fall asleep.

He had no intention of falling asleep.

He dug his knuckles in—hard. He didn't think he should be this tired. Joking aside, he had been unconscious last night and had therefore slept—_right?_ He made another attempt to focus on the computer, realized he'd pushed too hard against his lids for too long and been left with blurry spots in his vision. He gave up.

Closing the computer lid, he shoved his notes aside, and stood up. Immediately, silver sparks danced in the corners of his vision, edging the haze his knuckles had already painted. Spreading his hands out flat on the table, he sucked air slowly through his nose until the dizzy sensations dissipated. When he opened his eyes again, his vision had cleared, and the rush of blood to his head evened out.

Careful to not wake his brother, he started a slow pace across the room, thinking maybe if he just _moved_ himself around a little more, he'd start to feel better. He went toward the bathroom first, then turned to stroll back toward the door, stopping just before he'd have to cross the line of salt. He glanced back at his brother—who still hadn't moved.

Their dad always said it was better to be safe than sorry, but this time, Dean was pretty sure the line of salt wasn't protecting them in the way Sammy hoped it would. It'd work wonders in keeping out a possessed Sara, or keeping one in, or keeping a spirit from possessing her again—whichever the case in the room upstairs turned out to be. But Dean was pretty sure, whatever was going on with him, he was _already _infected. And he was pretty sure salt couldn't cure it.

He did wonder, however, if Jack had managed to pour the lines of salt in front of the windows and the doors of the other rooms like they'd instructed, without the Stanford kids noticing or complaining to management. There wasn't much more they could do about it, either way.

Dean palmed his sternum. He had more control over it—this _infection_—this time. As though beating it the first time Prisal One had given it to him made him better able to counter it. He just had to work at it.

And that, too, made him exhausted, made him feel stiff—made him not want to fall asleep ever again. The feelings were so familiar—sensations of pain and loss hovering, waiting, ready to _remind_. Like the way his body forgot and remembered vibrations of the road underneath him between long drives.

Not disturbing the other line of salt Sam had put down, he moved to the window, pulled one of the curtains sideways, folded his arms across his chest and leaned his forehead against the cool glass as he watched the day's drizzle.

He'd come up with a few theories while he'd read. Thought he understood what the ghost had done to him a little better—now that he knew what it had been and what it had been after. What he'd told Sam, about Prisal One probably being hurt before she was buried was probably true but didn't quite cut it—didn't quite explain the way he'd felt back then. Didn't quite explain how he was feeling _now_.

The way the pain reminded him of losing his mother, of Sam leaving, of his father's absence—the ghost took the metaphysical and made it real. It explained why Sammy or his Dad's touch had taken the pain away. The reality of the two of them being there _with_ Dean countering the fear he'd felt—countering the illusion of being alone that Prisal One had latched onto.

The ironic part was that they were all truly _his_ fears—not hers. She'd just over identified with them, made them manifest in a new way. That realization made him feel… exposed… robbed of emotions he should have been allowed to keep to himself. Made him more determined not to sleep until they solved this—more determined not to let her mess with him again.

Because as much progress as he thought he'd made in life—he knew his fears were still the same.

Almost as much as he knew Sammy's weren't.

The Sam he grew up with was still _there_, but he was different now—in ways Dean knew he'd never get back. Stanford and normal and _tragedy_ had changed his baby brother in ways he was still trying to catch up with. Sam and Dad had always had minds that worked in similar ways, despite Sam's protests to the contrary, but there had been an innocence in Sam's thought process that all but disappeared after Jessica's death.

Sometimes, Dean looked at him and wondered if the only reason his father was no longer around was because Sammy had secretly found a way to meld the two of them together.

Even if Sam's innocent view of the world and his quest for normal had been… delusional… it had still been a part of him. Dean missed it, sometimes—not that he'd ever say that to him. The absence of it threw him. Made him question things about Sam he knew. Made him question things about Sam he didn't know.

Why _wasn't _Sam broody and nostalgic about Stanford?

And did that mean he was really back with Dean for good?

Dean wanted Sam with him. More than that, he wanted Sam to want to be with him—want to be with him like he had when he'd been six, shadowing Dean and the few friends he'd made that summer everywhere they went. He'd been an almighty pain—_Dean, slow down! Dean, I'm thirsty. Dean, I want to try being the pitcher—_and still, Dean would have rather had Sammy with him than not. And the day Sammy'd cut his knee on a barbed wire fence following them into Mason's cow pasture and Chad Barker _not so kindly_ suggested Dean leave his kid brother home next time, Dean had punched him in the nose, effectively silencing both Chad's protests and Sammy's wails. Undaunted by the incident, Sam had stuck with him the rest of the summer.

At some point, that desire had changed for Sam—had to have, for him to have gone to Stanford, for him to have gotten to where he was now. Dean just couldn't remember when.

He couldn't remember the signs he should have been looking for.

And he sure as hell didn't know what to look for _now_.

More than that, sometimes he wondered—if he hadn't gone to Stanford for Sam's help, would things have still happened the way they had? Would Jessica still be dead?

The supernatural in his life had made him healthily skeptical of coincidence.

Abruptly, the ache in his chest deepened. Dean pressed a hand to it—groaned at himself for letting his thoughts get away from him. He had to control this. He couldn't pass out on his brother again. Neither one of them would be able to deal with the aftermath.

Behind him Sam made a noise, soft, and not quite distressed, but Dean walked over to him anyway. Sammy's eyebrows were creased, which probably meant nightmare.

Dean waited.

After a second, Sam's features smoothed. Dean watched him a second more when a thought came to him—curiosity. Feeling silly, he reached down, cautiously letting his fingers rest over Sam's heart. He almost smiled at the result. It wasn't _overt_, but the ache in his chest did _ease_. And the unidentifiable hum in the back of his brain faded into the background. Like magic. His face spread into a half-smile.

Moments later, he lifted his fingers—and felt the rebound. It was subtle, and if Sam woke up now he'd think he was crazy but—

Dean frowned on another thought—on the secret he'd been keeping since the canyon. If Sam's touch _helped_ him right now… why, in the canyon, had it made him hurt?

Sam grimaced again, rocking his head back and forth. Dean backed away, wiggling the fingers he'd used to touch him. He hadn't told Sam about that. And he still didn't plan to. Not if it could backfire. Not if it meant Sam might cut himself off when he needed Dean the most.

Whatever Sam's fear. Whatever his worry. Dean couldn't let that happen.

* * *

Sam didn't have memories of his mother—wouldn't remember her face if it weren't for the pictures, wouldn't know he'd seen her burn if it weren't for the stories.

He dreamed of her—sometimes. But it wasn't ever really _her_ he dreamed of. Just his subconscious trying to fill in the blanks of what he thought she might have been like.

Dean remembered her better, but Dean always had a hard time talking about her when they were little—got quiet in a way that had made Sam feel scared deep in his bones. Later, when they were older and Dean seemed more open to answering the questions Sam had always wanted to ask, he forgot how to ask them. And while Dean would drop unexpected details about her at the most random times—she became one of those things they sort of talked about but really didn't.

Sam dreamed of her death sometimes too.

But the dream never felt quite _real_ to him, and he thought that might be because _she_ was never quite real to him—more myth than fact—even after he'd seen her in the old house in Lawrence. It wasn't the same as dreaming about Jess. The Jess nightmare _always_ felt real.

Yet, the dream he started having after Dean told him to get some sleep was as real as any Jess dream—as real and present as any nightmare he'd ever had.

When he flopped back onto the bed and felt the phantom drips on his forehead, he expected to open his eyes and see his girlfriend pinned above him. But it was Mary instead—pinned over him in his nursery, regretful eyes piercing into his as she whispered, "I'm sorry," in the same tones she'd used when her spirit spoke to him in Lawrence.

"What for?" he tried to ask, but before his question was complete the cut on her stomach widened and a burst of flame spread out from her. "_NO!_" he gasped, feeling an inconsistency of place and time when he heard an echo of his shout sound out from the doorway on his right. He turned his head to see Dean standing frozen, eyes to the ceiling, seeing what Sam had seen—a Dean of indiscriminate age in the way that only makes sense in dreams—mouth and fists clenched with the tight, resigned approach to their life Sam had always envied, and hated, cloudy eyes watching the tragedy with horrible understanding. It was clear in Dean's eyes that he already knew the end from the beginning.

"Dean?" he whispered, but dream-Dean didn't seem to hear him, didn't seem to see him. Sam tried to sit up—but couldn't.

"_Sam_." His name was a whisper. He looked up, saw the fire spreading farther, felt the heat on his face. His mother's lips were moving. She was still trying to talk to him, but he couldn't hear what she was saying. A moment later the fire engulfed her, burning ash falling down on him, just like the blood, biting where it hit his skin, his own breaths coming faster.

He still couldn't move.

He needed help.

"Dean?" he tried, looking back to the doorway. Steadily there, Dean hadn't moved. Sam opened his mouth to shout to him, but as he did, the rug beneath Dean was yanked sideways by an unseen force, pulling his brother off his feet. Sam watched the fall in surreal slow motion, felt the burning room start to crumble around him just as Dean disappeared. "NO," he shouted again—trying to move. The fire flared hotter, filling in the doorway where Dean had been, filling in every field of Sam's vision.

He struggled harder, but it was as if the bed folded around him, blankets knotting around his torso as his vision started to go black. Then, just like that, everything stopped.

"It's okay, Sam. I've got you. It's okay."

The voice was sure and careful, deliberate and calm, as strong arms came around him, replacing the previous restraints, pulling his head back against a solid chest. He felt confused and panicked until he opened his eyes to see the environment around him had shifted—discovered he was stretched out over cool grass instead of a burning bed, looking up at open stars instead of fire.

And Dean had him. It was Dean's voice. He could hear the steady thump of his brother's heart in his ear, making the horror go away—making him safe.

He let his eyes close as he began to calm—relaxing into his brother's hold, breathing in and out the clean of the air—cool air, but not _too _cool.

Not cool enough to explain the icy feel of Dean's arm against his.

The rhythmic heartbeat against his ear changed—slow, off, _damaged_.

He felt his own start to race. "_Dean?_" He sat up, slipping out of Dean's grip, twisting around to see him on his knees, one hand braced on top of each one, keeping himself tenuously upright—as though he'd needed to find a new balance after letting Sam go. He was wearing the blue zip-up sweatshirt he'd worn after the electrocution. After the heart attack. It highlighted the insipid pallor of his skin, and was only a shade lighter than the black circles under his eyes. He looked worse now than he had when he'd come to the motel after checking himself out of the hospital, but he was wearing the same sort of half-smile as he had then, and his eyes were calm—complacent.

"It's okay, Sam," he repeated.

Sam wasn't about to be humored. "No, it's not," he whispered, watching Dean cock his head sideways with careful precision. He felt his horror rise.

Dean's eyes met his. "You'll be okay," he said softly, right before he pitched sideways.

Sam's hands darted out, catching fistfuls of the sweatshirt to ease Dean's slump to the ground, where he lay eerily unmoving, eyes already closed.

"_No, I won't." _Sam felt the panic. Felt the too-familiar shaky feeling in his belly. "_No_."

"What happened, Sam?"

He looked up to see his father kneeling across from him on Dean's other side, brushing a hand over his brother's forehead. "It was an accident, Dad." His voice shook. "It was just a stupid accident."

John's eyes crinkled—not unkindly—as he listened, keeping his fingers against Dean's forehead. "Did you lose him?"

Sam looked down, tightening his grip on the sweatshirt, feeling the tears—hot—against his cheeks. "I didn't know he could be lost."

Dropping the hand away from Dean's head, his dad just nodded.

Sam's knuckles were white where his hands clenched onto Dean's limp form. "Can you help him?"

John met his eyes squarely, giving a sigh—longsuffering—like the ones he gave whenever he'd tried to teach Sam a new skill and Sam wasn't picking up on it as quickly as he wanted him to. He reached across Dean, tapped Sam's breastbone—_hard_. "I told you before, it's what comes _after_ that you should worry about." John stood up, nudged Dean with his foot and stepped back.

"Dad?"

"Better hold on, son."

The words were the harbinger. Almost immediately he felt something latch around his ankles—felt himself being pulled. His hands tightened their clamp in Dean's sweatshirt. "_No!"_ Adrenaline and desperation. "Help me, Dad."

"I can't, son. I'm not really here. Don't lose him now."

But it was too late. Dean was yanked from his grip, ripped from his fingers.

His father disappeared.

Sam was left in darkness.

"Sam? Sammy, _wake up!_"

Sam blinked his eyes open with a gasp so hard he felt like the air had been knocked out of him and he was catching his first breath.

"_Easy_," a voice commanded. He recognized it a moment later as Dean's voice. Recognized he was blinking into Dean's face.

Dean's hand was warm where it gripped the curve of his neck—contrasting sharply against the memory of the cold skin in his dream. Knowing it would make his brother worry, he reached out his hands to fist in Dean's t-shirt anyway.

"Sam?" The grip on the side of his neck tightened with the question and Sam realized then that he was shaking.

He rolled his head toward the clock on the nightstand and back to Dean's face. He'd been out at least two hours. "Did I scream?" he asked.

"No," Dean answered carefully. "You were just… shaking. Was it the same dream?"

Sam hesitated, started to shake his head, then switched to a nod instead. "Started different—ended the same." He let go of Dean's t-shirt with his right hand, maneuvered the same hand under Dean's arm to swipe at his face. Grit had already formed in the corners of his eyes, and he rubbed it free.

"I was dying?" Dean asked, voice too blunt for the question it asked and Sam flinched, dropping his hand.

"Yeah," he said simply.

Dean let go of him, brushed his hands down until they rested on his knees. "How?"

Sam's eyes were following Dean's hands but when the question was asked they went straight to Dean's heart.

Dean grimaced. "It's the ghost, Sam—just residual… crap. I'm not dying."

Sam's left hand reflexively tightened in the shirt he gripped. He wished it were that simple.

Dean sighed.

It rubbed at Sam wrong—he wasn't ready to be humored. He forced himself to let go of Dean's shirt.

Dean opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by a knock at the door.

"It's probably Jack. Better answer it," Sam said, swiping the hand across his eyes again, feeling the uncertainty in Dean's gaze.

"Sam?"

"I'm okay," he aborted.

Dean's eyes were disbelieving but he moved away.

Sam took a breath, held it, let it out, and prepared to stand up. The dream had felt scarier this time. Did that mean something? Did it mean Dean was going to pass out again? Or was it just his fear talking to him—sadistically making his subconscious put all his worst experiences into one ugly nightmare?

He shuddered.

For just a moment, he wished he was eight again, just so Dean would hug him—pull him in tight with a hand to the back of his head in the way he now only _sometimes_ did—like he had back in Lawrence after he'd pulled that cord from around Sam's neck. And Sam wished he could hug back, fiercely, without freaking Dean out—without making him more worried about this situation than he already was.

The knock came again. Sam looked up to see Dean at the door, still watching him, the _Are you sure?_ question plain in his eyes.

Sam nodded again, pushed himself to his feet as Dean twisted the knob and pulled the door open, looking a little unsteady as he did so. Sam scowled and thought—if the dream was supposed to make him worry more about Dean passing out again, it shouldn't have bothered. Dean had been two steps away from that since waking up.

He growled unconsciously, glanced over to the door to see both Dean and Jack lift their eyebrows at him.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Hey, Jack."

The doctor lingered in the doorway, seemingly trying to shake off both hesitation and rain. He shifted his stance as he returned the greeting, and that's when Sam noticed he wasn't alone. Elly stood, carefully hidden at his elbow, outside Sam's view until Jack stepped back to lead her into the room. She entered hesitantly, eyes darting nervously around, calming only a fraction after settling on Dean, but keeping up their motion, taking in all the things they'd fastened to the walls.

Sam took a steadying breath, moving his eyes toward his brother, but Dean wasn't taking credit for being _right_ just then. He'd asked Jack to bring her, and somehow Jack had gotten her to agree.

Dean stepped back toward Sam, giving Elly space as she moved.

She stopped finally, tugged tightly on the tie of the sweater-jacket she wore, and took a seat on the end of the closest bed, Jack shadowing her at a distance with an uncharacteristically anguished expression.

"Thanks for coming," Dean said and Sam wasn't sure which one he was talking to.

"Thanks for helping us," Jack returned.

Dean nodded, though Sam wondered about it, because at this point, he'd lost track of who was helping whom.

Another knock sounded. Dean looked back at the door with a frown.

"I got it," said Sam, already knowing who it would be. He pulled the door open, careful of the line of salt that was scuffed but intact. "Come on in, Charlie," he gestured.

"What's he doing here?" Jack whispered.

When Sam turned he could see the same question in the eyes of his own older brother. "I asked him to come down when Jack got back," he explained. "I thought he should be here."

* * *

tbc


	25. Chapter 25

**Part 25**

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006_

Charlie lingered warily in the open doorway, next to where Sam stood with his hand on the doorknob. "Am I interrupting something?" he asked hesitantly.

Dean gripped a hand on the back of the chair to his left, lifting his eyebrows at Sam who met his gaze squarely, gave a nearly imperceptible shrug of his left shoulder and looked away.

The subtle defiance laced in his brother's tiny movements was an achingly familiar throwback to the way Sam had been with Dad back when things had just started going wrong—before Stanford. Before things had escalated into _You're ruining my life_ and _If you leave, stay gone_—rebellion and insubordination found more in his demeanor than in any outright action. Dean usually thought of this as Sam's way to subtly communicate his opinion that the rest of the world had become unreasonable and his was therefore the only sane voice left.

Clearly, his brother thought he knew what he was doing.

Dean wasn't so sure. His teeth clenched involuntarily—a gut reaction of worry, mostly for his brother.

"No," Sam said, eyes on Charlie, answering his question when it appeared no one else would. "You're not interrupting. Come in."

Jack shuffled his feet across the coarse carpet, lifting a hand to the bridge of his nose.

"_Sam_," Dean cut in warningly, but Sam just shook his head at him, adding the _trust me_ look Dean had caved to in the past way more than he ever should have.

"I told Sam I wanted to talk to Jack." Charlie was glancing between them, keeping himself in the doorway despite Sam's invitation. "Maybe this is a… bad time?" There was an edge of sarcasm in his voice that didn't sound all that good-natured. Whatever he'd initially thought his brother was doing here—checking on Dean's health or _whatever_—Charlie'd obviously deduced there was more to it than that, expression tightening as he tried to connect the dots. He made an indistinct gesture with his hand and spoke to Jack, "Look, I know there's something going on, alright? You've been acting weird all week and—"

Jack's hand dropped away from his face. "Charlie—" he started, tone weary and placating.

"Is this Charlie?" Elly rose unexpectedly from her seat on the bed.

Jack swung toward her, startled, looking surprised to hear her speak—even more surprised when he realized her eyes were on him and the question she'd asked had been consciously directed to him.

The tight white lines bordering her features softened. She moved to Charlie, not stopping until she stood directly in front of him. Sam stepped back to give her space, hand still holding the doorknob, gaping the door wider with his movement, rain-soaked air flowing inward on the breeze. Elly's hand skirted up to Charlie's jaw, pausing just short of touching it. "Jack talks about you," she whispered, eyes sparkling momentarily.

Charlie flicked his gaze to Jack and back without moving any other muscle in his body—instinctively as motionless as one would be confronting a wild animal. "Does he, now?" he replied, relaying the _who are you?_ in the simple preciseness of his tone. "Wonderful. That's… uh… absolutely fabulous."

Elly's lips twitched to a soft smile, making it look for a moment like she might laugh. Her fingers descended to touch the side of Charlie's jaw after all. Two seconds later, her expression changed, the sparkle in her eyes abating. Her hand dropped. She glanced back at Jack as though just then remembering where she was and why she was there, tugging again at the tie on her sweater, folding her arms across her chest when she'd finished.

Her stance shifted.

Dean could no longer see her eyes, but it seemed clear her focus was suddenly on his brother.

Wary of how she'd reacted to Sam back in the care center, Dean stepped forward, tensing.

She turned abruptly away from Sam to face him. "She found you, again."

He stopped. Unlike the conversation with her before, Dean was pretty sure he understood her this time—was reasonably sure she was talking about Prisal One. "Yes," he answered.

The fingers she had clenched at each of her biceps fluttered and stiffened until her hands looked white. "But it's not over."

Dean wasn't sure if it was a question or not but he answered anyway. "Not yet."

Elly nodded, twisting back to Sam. "That just leaves you," she whispered, gaze wavering. "She agrees with you."

"What?" Sam glanced to Dean and frowned.

Dean's chest constricted. Forcing one long fighting breath, he took another step forward, close enough to the open door to feel the cold from the rainy outside air hit his bare arms. Was it a warning or a statement? Did she mean Sam or him?

Trapped between them, Charlie stepped back, more outside than in, confusion etched deeply on his face.

"You still shouldn't be here," Elly spoke once more, directing her words at Sam. It wasn't said with the same agitation she'd said it back in the center—sounding more regretful than threatening. She blinked, eyes squinting. "It's what comes after," she mumbled, looking at Dean, pinning her eyes to his chest. "It's always… what comes after." She stopped, squinting, looking up to see Sam's eyes, confusion in her voice making what she said sound like a question, so sedate in word and action, Dean wasn't expecting it when Sam flinched.

Already fighting his hypersensitive nerves, his eyes narrowed. "Sam?" he questioned.

Sam didn't answer and Jack spoke before Dean could push. "Elly, what are you talking about?" he questioned gently.

She shook her head, eyes scrunched and pained as she returned to her seat on the bed, tucking stray hair behind one ear, brushing her other hand against a non-existent crease in her jeans. "I don't know, Jack."

Outside, the rain was picking up again.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

"Uh," Charlie stumbled, "I'll uh… I'm sorry to interrupt. I'll… "

"Charlie, wait. We do need to talk." Jack threw Dean an apologetic expression. "Can you give us a minute?"

"We could use some air," Dean agreed. He grabbed his over-shirt from the back of the nearest chair, shrugging it on before picking up Sam's jacket.

Sam stopped him before he could cross the scuffed line of salt, closing a quick grip on one arm. "You should stay inside," he said lowly.

Dean rolled his eyes, rebelliously stepping over the line, breaking Sam's grip and brushing past Charlie into the grey outside—the overhead awning keeping him from getting instantly wet.

Behind him, Sam made a disgruntled noise, but it was followed by the creak of the closing door and Sam's feet scuffling across the cement. When Dean looked back, Sam was folding his arms across his chest. His face looked pinched and a little white. For a moment Dean regretted his cavalier response to his brother's worry.

"You shouldn't be out here," Sam said, voice off enough for Dean to recognize he hadn't yet shaken off his nightmare.

Dean swallowed thickly. He didn't know what to say that hadn't already been said. He could tell Sam again he wasn't dying—could tell him again his dreams were just nightmares. But Sam wouldn't buy it, and the line between fact and myth blurred more and more each time Dean tried to draw it.

Wordlessly, he tossed Sam his jacket—didn't tell Sam he was fine and didn't really try to hide the fact that he wasn't. He turned away, took several balanced steps to a bench against the wall a few doors down, consciously swallowed his own surfacing fears and sat down. When he did, he discovered he had a view of both the Oxbow Restaurant and the McDonald's across the street. At some point, before those newer buildings existed, he probably would have had a pretty excellent view of the oddly shaped brushed hills bordering the entrance to the town—the same ones that eventually bottlenecked into Sinks Canyon—proving that everything grew and changed, even towns like Lander.

Jacket on, Sam slumped next to him, hands shoved deep into his pockets, apparently willing to allow his worry to take the backseat—for now. He tapped his foot against the pavement a couple times but stilled it when he spoke, "Before you say anything about Charlie—he _asked_, Dean. He's not an idiot. He already knew there was something going on with Jack. And after everything at the house this morning… then the clinic—"

"So you just thought you'd spill everything to him whether Jack wanted him to know or not? 'Hey, Charlie, your brother's secret fiancée was kidnapped by ghosts and—'"

"_No._ I didn't tell him anything. I'm not planning to tell him anything. I just gave him the chance to ask his _brother_ questions he already had."

Dean stretched his legs out in front of him, sliding down on the bench. He picked up on Sam's wronged-little-brother vibe, but ignored it for the moment. "With Elly there?"

Sam grimaced. "I didn't think Jack would really bring her," he admitted.

Dean smirked. "Your faith in me is overwhelming," he shot wryly.

"I'm sorry, okay? After everything Jack said the other day… about her not wanting to talk to him or leave her room… I just didn't think—"

"Yeah, you didn't think, did you?"

Sam scowled, body movements reflecting heightened anger. "You know what, forget it, I _was_ thinking. First, Jack said he _wanted_ to tell Charlie about Elly—just didn't know how. Second, Charlie was going to talk to him _anyway. _Besides, if Jack really didn't want Charlie to know, he could have just let Charlie leave when he was going to."

Dean sighed at Sam's righteous indignation. "And if Jack's in there telling him the rest along with it? Telling him he saw a ghost in the canyon… and that you aren't who he thinks you are? What do you think he's going to say? Because if you think your friendship's going to be the same, it won't be. And let me tell you, him calling you _freakin' nuts_ will be at the top of the list."

"Charlie's not like that."

The crux of the situation: Sam had too much faith in people, in the ultimate good of the world, in his _friends_. A lingering characteristic from his brother's well of innocence. How could he explain to him that this was different? Bringing Charlie here—blending the two sides of Sam's world—it wouldn't go well. It wouldn't go well because innocence didn't exist on their side of things. In the normal world, they _were_ freaks.

Besides, Dean had tried it once—the full honesty thing—had reached the point of no longer being able to pretend. He'd learned the hard way that there were reasons for the rules they lived by, for the secrets they kept. He didn't want Sam to feel… _that_. Didn't want him to know that friendships only went so far—that people would rarely react the way Sam wanted them to. Dean thought Sam would have learned that by now, after all those lost arguments with Dad.

It was a hard reality but— "_People_ are like that, Sam."

His brother slouched back on the bench, the pose of giving up without conceding. "You're kind of cynical, you know that?"

"Doesn't mean I'm wrong."

"Doesn't mean you're right, either. And Dean, at this point, would Jack telling him everything be such a bad thing? I mean, he's right in the _middle_ of it—got a vase smashed into the side of his head this morning because of it. And with Sara getting possessed and all that… Maybe if we'd filled him in sooner, he might have been able to help us a little. At the very least, he would have been prepared to protect himself better. Besides, they're _brothers_, Dean."

There it was—the wronged-little-brother vibe again. Dean blinked, cocked his head to the side. "Something you want to say to me?"

Sam fidgeted, shoulders tightening and relaxing, jaw twitching. Ultimately, he sighed, casting his gaze out over the parking lot. "I just wish you wouldn't keep so much to yourself," he admitted. "We might have gotten further on this thing sooner if you'd just... let me _in_ a little—told me about what you'd read in Dad's journal or filled me in on what happened to you _before,_ or even just… told me what you suspected."

Dean snorted, and this time he did say it, "You've got to be kidding me. Because, correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't you the guy I remember saying—what was it?—oh yeah, _You're my brother, but there are some things I need to keep to myself?_ Aren't you _that_ guy? I'm pretty sure that was you." He left out the part about Sam dying for him—on purpose. As honest as he tried to be with himself, he often edited out the concepts he couldn't deal with. _Ignoring_ was sometimes better. A bad habit for sure—creating a selective reality—but sometimes it was all he had to make things bearable. And theoretically kept others from honing in on the things that could hurt him—really hurt him.

Sam's response was predictable. "That's different."

Dean drew his legs back in, sat forward and lifted his eyebrows in disbelief. "Really? How?"

"What I hold back doesn't end up putting my _life_ in danger."

Dean's disbelief went up a notch and he expelled a short huffed breath of air. "So Bloody Mary was just planning on shaking your hand?" His voice was rigid through the sarcasm.

Sam shook his head. "It's not like you didn't know what was going on. At least you knew she'd be coming for me—knew what to do when she did. Besides, that _had_ to stay a secret or the plan wouldn't have worked."

Dean grunted, wanting to ask _why_ then Sam hadn't told him about the dreams after the Bloody Mary thing was over? Or, forget that—why hadn't Sam told him about them back when Jessica died? Why had it been so difficult for Sam to tell him about them, even _after_ he'd demanded Dean go back to Lawrence because of them?

And _why the hell_ hadn't Sam wanted him called after he'd been taken to the hospital last year?

Dean felt it surge up in him—indignation and anger and hurt. "Whatever you want to tell yourself, _Sammy_, but the truth is you're _just_ like Dad—you think you're entitled to all the information, but for the rest of us it's need-to-know at your discretion." The weight on his chest was instant, the twinge in his heart intensifying, matching the vibration that flew forward from the back of his mind. He clenched his eyes shut, bowed away from his brother, and balanced his elbows on his knees. He kept his hands purposely away from his heart—clenching them into fists so tight the short nails cut into his palms.

Vertigo struck next, confusing his sense of up and down. He opened his eyes again quickly, relieved to find himself still upright. His gaze flicked back to Sam, focus drawn to the deepening line between his brother's eyebrows, but he saw Sam's hands, too, coming out of his pockets, reaching for his arm.

"Are you okay?" Sam's voice was scared.

Dean unclenched his fists, gripping the edge of the bench on either side of him.

One of Sam's hands landed on his shoulder, gripping tight. The hum and the vertigo gave ground to his touch, but as grateful as Dean felt to have it, he was angry about it also. Couldn't he get into a nice normal argument with his brother without needing to hit the dirt? For a second, he warred between the desire to knock Sam's hand away and the desire to clench onto his wrist to make sure he didn't let go.

He did neither. He locked his jaw, rolled his focus back to the McDonald's and said, "I feel fine, Sam."

"You should have stayed inside."

"A ring of salt isn't going to protect me."

"Better than nothing," Sam shot back. He leaned back on the bench, but kept his hand to Dean's shoulder, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt in a way that made Dean think he wasn't aware he was doing it.

_Better than nothing_.

Dean told himself that lie about a lot of things.

* * *

As it turned out, Dean was right.

Sort of.

Jack ended up telling Charlie all of it—and Charlie wasn't really taking it well.

Sam hated it when Dean was right.

On the other hand—while Charlie kept looking at him like he'd never seen him before, he hadn't called him _freakin' nuts_ yet, like Dean had said he would.

That was something.

Except maybe Charlie just hadn't worked up to it yet, because he hadn't said anything to him at all, really—had kept himself seated in the corner of the room behind the table while the rest of them spoke, watching him and Dean and Jack with silent _Alice-in-Wonderland_ contemplation, furtive glances at Elly thrown in for good measure.

"You said _voices,_ Elly—plural. Could you distinguish between them? Did they talk at the same time?" Dean was asking.

Sam tried to focus.

Elly had taken a pillow from the bed and was holding it folded in front of her—false security—as she tried to answer Dean's carefully composed questions. She'd progressed in coherency as the conversation evolved, but continued to phrase her answers with a staccato stop-motion of words that caused Sam to repeatedly backtrack what she'd said, just to make sure he was grouping the right sections of her words together.

"They spoke… together. At the same time. The man. Two women. I think," she explained.

Dean nodded. "Could you tell—"

"—what they were saying? No. Not really. They were fighting. They argued."

"All three of them?"

"Yes."

"What about?"

"Me. They were fighting. About me. I think."

"For control, maybe?" Dean speculated, looking at Sam.

That made sense. If the ghosts couldn't operate independently, or at least, couldn't operate independently all the time, there would be some inconsistency or inherent difficulty in forming cohesive actions, despite the fact that all three were ironically obsessed with being alone. Forever together, but damned by what they'd done to each other.

"Anything specific?" Sam asked.

"I don't… it's hard. To remember. Like remembering a dream."

From his corner, Charlie snorted.

Dean ignored him.

With what must have taken monumental effort, so did Jack. He thought maybe it was an exclusive big brother skill—the ability to tune out the younger when they needed to… or wanted to. "I only heard the man," he told Sam, leaning against the wall with one shoulder. "He said—now I'd know what it was like to be alone." He looked apologetically at Elly.

Sam assumed the look had something to do with the argument they'd been having before she disappeared. He looked away from them, feeling voyeuristic, pen firm in his hand as he wrote what Jack had just said.

"Knowing this is really going to help us stop them… it?" Jack fumbled to ask, stepping closer to peer at Sam's scratchy writing.

"Hopefully," Sam answered. He couldn't help it when his gaze traveled to Charlie—couldn't help wondering what he was thinking. When their eyes briefly met, he still couldn't tell.

He returned to Jack as his focal point. "If we can figure out what motivates each part of the casserole, we'll at least know a little more about what we're dealing with—maybe know what made each victim vulnerable to it." His eyes went to Dean this time—who was plainly aware of Sam's scrutiny and was expertly ignoring it. "And since we don't know where the third body is, we may have to come up with another way to stop this thing."

"Which means anything you can remember could help—especially since you," Dean looked at Elly, "—_survived_. Even just a phrase or a word."

"You're saying that what she remembers could tell us why she and the Collins guy came back… but Addison Wright didn't?" Jack didn't say Addison was dead. He didn't have to.

Elly took a deep breath, closing her eyes like Dean kept periodically doing. "Alone. They just… kept talking about... being alone." Her eyes opened. "Maybe… one of them. One of them might have said something about hurting what you love… knowing what you needed… or… or maybe, losing what you needed… I… I don't remember."

"It's okay," Dean said.

"Sometimes, I think I… I dream about it. At night. Hear them again and again, but I… When I wake up. I don't… I can't remember what they're saying."

_Saying_, Sam thought, present tense—like she was still hearing them but didn't know it. "It's okay," he reassured, tapping the pad. "This at least gives us something." He stood, stretched, and looked down at his watch. It was getting late. Neither he nor Dean had eaten dinner yet, but Sam was willing to skip it, for both of them. Now that it was darker outside and he could go the cemetery and dig up Earl's grave with less risk of being spotted, he didn't want to put it off.

He expected Dean to argue when he announced his intentions to go alone. He wasn't expecting the determination and force Dean put into his reaction.

"It's not going to happen, Sam."

"_Yes_ it is."

Usually, when it _mattered_, when it was _obvious_, Sam could reason Dean down. Especially when he was this weak and wobbly and just wouldn't admit it. This time, Dean was ignoring common sense. Maybe feelings from their earlier argument were still rubbing at his nerves, or maybe—

Sam was getting frustrated, and quickly forgetting that there were other people in the room. "You're _staying_ here," he ordered bluntly, feeling once more the fleeting wish for their father to show up and make the order stick.

"Like _hell_."

Sam made a noise in his throat and turned away, laced the fingers of his hands and ran them together over his head. He kept seeing, in his mind's eye, flashes of Dean being torn away from him—kept picturing himself digging up Earl's grave while Dean collapsed in the grass above, foolishly there under the pretense of protecting him. He tried to make his voice level when he turned back, but the want to yell was building in his chest. "You _just_ spent the night in the _hospital_—"

"_Clinic_."

"And since you got out you've barely been able to walk ten feet without falling over!"

"Sam—"

"These ghosts already have a hold on you—"

"One ghost."

"And a week ago, you almost _died—_"

"That has nothing to do with this."

"The hell it doesn't!"

Dean was standing rigidly, fists clenched—but Sam could see it, the stuttered gasp in Dean's breathing, the conscious effort he was making to not touch his sternum. He had the audacity to say it anyway. "There's nothing wrong with my heart, Sam."

Sam lowered his voice in turn. "You've been weak since we left Nebraska," he stated, stepping closer—deliberately crowding him. "If you'd had time to really… _recover _from everything_—_maybe I'd believe you. Add this latcher on top of it and stepping out that door is the stupidest thing you can do. All it does is put you in a position where you _will_ get hurt again. _You_. _Can't_. _Help_ me right now."

Dean gave in, unclenched one hand, and pressed his palm against his chest, looking away, leaning himself back against the wall, taking tight, short, stiff breaths.

Sam held back his reactive _I told you so_ expression and extended his hand, fingers closing once again on Dean's shoulder. He thought he'd won, but there was a set to Dean's jaw— "Sam, in the canyon, the ghost did something to _you,_ not me."

"I'm not going to be in the canyon," he countered, trying to make his voice kind—but the pit of fear in his stomach made the words harsher than he meant them. "I'll be nowhere near it."

Dean growled, but Sam caught the defeat in the sound.

"I'll go with him."

The outside voice was startling. Simultaneously, they shifted their heads toward the speaker.

They really had forgotten there were others in the room.

Jack repeated his offer. "I'll go. I'll do it. Just tell me what I need to know."

Sam looked back to Dean, checking his reaction, holding his breath—hating that he felt like he was waiting for _permission_.

Dean's throat quivered as he swallowed but the action preceded a cautious nod. "Yeah," he whispered. His darkened eyes caught Sam's—blatant concern and hidden threats pulsating out from them. "Yeah, okay. But you—be careful. Make sure Jack can fire the shotgun. Keep your cell phone _on_ and with you. And leave me a shotgun too."

"That I can do," Sam agreed, nodding at Dean's terms.

From the corner, Charlie finally spoke. "Wait. Jack, did you just say you're going to go dig up a grave? That's crazy. Not to mention illegal."

"Well, I thought I was going crazy anyway—then they come along and tell me that I'm sane." Jack shrugged, waving a hand at Sam and Dean. "If it turns out they're right, I'll be moving up in the world. If it turns out they're wrong, at least I haven't lost any ground."

"Unless you end up in jail for grave robbing."

Jack didn't respond to that. He spoke to Dean instead. "I know how to fire a shotgun."

Dean nodded. Jaw tight, he answered, "Sam will tell you what to look out for."

Jack turned to Elly. "I'll take you back to the care center first."

"No." She shook her head. "I mean, if you get me a room _here_. I'd rather not go back. Please, Jack."

"You feel safe there, Elly."

"Not anymore."

His face flashed briefly with emotion and he reached out a tentative hand to her shoulder—relief on his face when she didn't flinch away. "Okay," he agreed. "Okay."

A minute after Jack and Elly left to get her room, Sam came back from the Impala with the requested shotgun and more. Extra salt and a nine-millimeter, a box of consecrated iron rounds and the extra EMF meter—it would do, but Dean wished his other meter hadn't been left at the house.

Setting everything on the bed, Sam began checking and loading the weapons with quick, expert hands—so focused on his task he didn't notice that Charlie was watching him handle the weapons with uneasy awe.

Dean saw it—and couldn't help the smirk.

When he was finished, Sam tossed Dean the shotgun, which he caught one-handed. After that, Sam moved to the nightstand, setting the other weapon on top of it. "Extra rounds are in the drawer." _As though Dean hadn't just watched him put them in there._

Dean nodded acknowledgment, still not liking this being-left-behind crap. He'd never been good at sitting on the sidelines.

Sam picked up the salt canister and began re-laying the lines.

When he was finished, he frowned over at Dean. "What about the others?"

To their surprise, it was Charlie who answered, "They've been upstairs watching movies all afternoon. They'd just started _The Indiana Jones_ trilogy when I came down here. They're not going anywhere for a while."

Sam's eyes slid to Dean with a hopeful expression. Dean saw the relief there too—could tell his brother was gratified Charlie had finally said something to him. "Sara too?" Sam asked.

"Yeah."

"And she seemed okay? Uh… normal?"

_Normal_ was the wrong word to use.

Charlie recoiled in the wake of it. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "As far as I know," he finally stuttered. Which wasn't saying much—considering how much _normal_ for him had just been changed.

The moment was broken when Jack tapped on the door.

Dean opened it.

"I'm uh… ready when you are," he said to Sam.

Sam picked up the keys to the Impala, gave Dean a look of reassurance, and followed Jack out the door. He was closing it behind him when Charlie spoke again. "Be careful," he muttered, eyes guarded.

Sam's hand paused on the knob. "We will be. You too." He said it to Charlie, but his eyes strayed meaningfully to Dean.

The door closed.

Dean pressed his hand to his heart again, used the other to grip the back of the chair closest to him, taking long slow breaths in the wake of fear Sam left behind. It took longer, this time, for the black spots dancing in his vision to finally go away. When they did, dread settled deep in his stomach, making him shaky. He swore under his breath, oblivious to Charlie's worried watching. He fought the desire to punch the wall or throw a chair, and dropped to the bed in one angry movement with his head in his hands.

The thought of Sam alone _terrified_ him.

It wasn't something he was comfortable with in the best of times. And in the worst—he'd stepped willingly onto a plane he _knew_ was going to crash simply because the greater fear was his brother dealing with it alone. Rational, logical, or not—he shouldn't have let Sam win that argument.

And he never should have let his little brother walk out that door without him.

* * *

tbc


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996_

Dean woke—groggily—to John's prodding twice during the night. Both times still feeling rampantly heavy with panic and need-to-sleep.

But still, he _woke_. And knew it—paranoia receding subtly—even if both awakenings were hazy-brief and barely remembered.

His dad spoke to him—both times.

Or Dean believed he had, because John's voice stayed in his dreams after, slipping through them in alternating tones of worried sharpness and concerned comfort. The first time it was the latter, whispering something like, "It's okay, son. You woke up. See? Now go back to sleep,"—softly insistent and just loud enough to penetrate the shocky remainder of fading fear and pain.

The second time, Dad's voice lingered longer, forcing Dean awake long enough to repeat his name and claw for foggy facts about where he was and what he remembered—proof that Dean's fear of not waking up had made John worry about it too. Proof that, though Dean did not have a head injury, John was dealing with the aftermath of this as best he could.

After that, the sleep was deeper—mind unconsciously more confident in the probability of waking up. Once might have been incidental. Twice was a pattern. It was deep enough that the third waking came too soon. Dean's body and mind both complained against it, resulting in an off kilter perception of place and time, buried under the cotton feel of his stinging senses, as he struggled to figure out what'd sparked his consciousness.

He didn't hear his father's voice.

Not at first.

Which made the back of his neck tingle and caused a wary burn in his gut.

It was still harder than he would have thought just to make his eyes follow his command to _open_. Not difficult enough to bring the return of panic, but enough to let him know his reflexes weren't just going to come bouncing back. He blinked slowly at the ceiling—grey morning light filtering over the shadows through half-drawn curtains.

The room was still—felt still.

The door creaked and Dean rolled his heavy head left, burn in his gut easing when he saw his dad. As their eyes caught, John sighed on the edge of a weary scowl and rubbed a hand over his chin. "Sammy, I told you to let him sleep."

Dean blinked again, shifting his eyes around until he found his brother standing at the end of the bed, hand hovering guiltily over Dean's foot. In the last few days, Dean had become so accustomed to identifying his life by sound and touch he felt surprised not to have noticed Sam sooner, even knowing how quiet his brother could be when he set his mind to it.

With a briefly defiant glance at their father, Sammy pulled his lips tightly together and frowned—the corners of his mouth drawn down almost comically, making his chin dimple as he lowered his eyes to his shirt front, toying at the hem with his hands. He looked so… _little boy_. Dean wanted to call him on it, to tease him—to _laugh_. He didn't though, something else in the way Sammy stood stopping him—something vulnerable, something scared. His brother wasn't _trying_ to be comical and Dean was sure, if he poked at him just then, Sam might start crying, or yelling, or worse.

John sighed once more. Closing the door, he set a coffee on the table—one (which meant Dean wasn't getting any)—and stepped forward to lay a large hand on Sam's shoulder. It was subtle, but Dean saw the small smile that cracked John's stern expression. Sammy didn't—head still lowered. Dean figured his dad was seeing the same little boy in Sammy that Dean was—the little boy neither one of them saw very much these days.

As Dean watched, John's grip gentled, ghosting up to settle at the back of Sam's neck.

"I just wanted to make sure," Sam mumbled. "And you said we could check him again."

Watching Sam's face, the burn in Dean's stomach intensified. He grunted, tried to shift, and groaned—immediately halted by the stiffness seizing his body.

John's face hardened. "Take it _easy_, Dean," he ordered—sharpness more genuine than when he'd reproved Sam.

Dean bit his lip, and acquiesced with a nod.

John turned back to Sammy. "I said we'd check up on him after breakfast, that he needed _sleep _to get better. And you still owe me four sets before we eat."

"_Daaad._"

"Not negotiable."

Sammy groaned—overdramatic in his protest. But at the same time, his eyes shot to Dean, holding his gaze with something _not_ overdramatic—something serious and evaluating and lingeringly afraid. Afraid in a way Dean wasn't sure he'd seen before, and wasn't comfortable with.

"Come on." Dad's hand found Sam's shoulder again. "Get goin', you need to get out of this room and get some air. Dean will still be here when you're done."

Dean mustered what he hoped was a reassuring nod.

Sammy frowned but made for the door with a longsuffering sigh.

Dad followed him, pulling the curtain open all the way. "Stay where I can see you," he ordered.

"_Yessir_."

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006_

Driving the Impala was one thing. Sam had done it before—a few rare occasions before leaving for school (none of which had ever been at Dean's suggestion), and an almost uncountable amount since he'd been back.

Driving the Impala with someone else's brother in the passenger seat was something else entirely. It felt _wrong_—in an elemental way, creating a pang in Sam's gut that felt like tearing.

It was a stupid feeling—more evidence that he hadn't shaken off his nightmare, more evidence of how much this job had gotten to both him and his brother, more evidence of how far down the job before had taken them. The lingering tidal wave of Dean and his heart and Nebraska. The earthquake had been bad enough—waiting for the tsunami to recede was worse.

Why did these things come at them like this—one on top of another, on top of another?

Sam growled, low in his throat, then tried to turn it into a cough when Jack's clinical eyes looked over, veiling concern and re-enforcing the wrongness of Jack not being Dean.

Sam focused back on the road, flipping his brights on briefly to read the tiny sign labeling the cross-street then took the turn, thinking that, even though Jack couldn't help not being Dean, and Dean staying behind was what had to happen, and even though this feeling was stupid, it didn't stop him from paying attention to it—didn't stop it from feeling _real._ Real and… _cold_. A seeping cold Sam wanted to blame on the weather—melting into his joints, turning his knuckles white against the soft black steering wheel. The farther he and Jack traveled from the Lodge—from Dean—the more it increased. Dark, cloudy, and unsettling—like the day.

The ironic part was that he couldn't seem to blame it on his supposed ESP.

The ironic part was that he _wanted_ to.

For the first time since discovering some of his nightmares were real, Sam wanted it to _be_ real. At least then he'd have something. But it _wasn't_ supposed ESP.

He knew it.

Somehow, he knew it.

And that was stupid too.

* * *

Dean paced.

Unsteady but deliberate. Footprints tracing a thin line from one wall to the other—thicker where he paused to stand in front of the information plastered on the north side. Jaw clenched in concentration, fingers reaching up to trace a path on the map or to ghost over notes and articles—as though touch would make the information clearer to him.

He called Sam on his cell phone.

Twice.

The first time to ensure reception in town wasn't as non-existent as it'd been out at Jack and Charlie's. The second time just to—just to make sure the first time hadn't been a fluke.

"You're not, like, worried about me, are you?" Sam asked the second time, humor and teasing cloaking affection and worry.

The question included too many emotions and too much truth for Dean to deal with all at once.

He growled and hung up.

Which was probably what Sam had meant him to do—_manipulative bastard_.

Dean's fingers itched to redial the connection almost as soon he cut it off.

Charlie's subdued voice stopped him. "They okay?"

Dean had almost forgotten Charlie was in the room. He looked at him then—guessed from the tight movements and hooded expression that the kid was barely holding himself back from crashing after everything he'd learned that night, which Dean wanted to ignore but suddenly couldn't, because this was someone's little brother and Sam's friend and—"You're not going to freak out on me, are ya?" he asked gruffly, unaware of how tightly his hand was squeezing the cell phone as he did, aware that his own _freak out_ was barely in check.

Charlie closed his eyes, fingered the stitches disappearing into his hairline, and hooked a hand behind his neck. "I'm still waiting for Rod Serling to show up and kick off the theme for _The_ _Twilight Zone_, if that's what you mean."

Dean felt one corner of his mouth twitch. "Classic TV geek. Sam's friend. I should've figured," he shot, but it was a lie. Sam's classic TV obsession had never included _The Twilight Zone_, and by the look on his face, Charlie knew it.

It was weird, interacting with someone besides their father who knew things about Sam. Actual _real_ things. More damning proof that not all of Sam's Stanford persona had been pretend. Proof that tiny parts of real-Sam had leaked out even without Dean or Dad there to remind him who he really was—leaked out even though Sam had clearly tried so hard not to let them.

Charlie's eyes drifted to the wall, minutely trembling as he rubbed his neck again.

Dean heard him swallow.

"He—Sam—and I watched a _Twilight Zone_ marathon one night after midterms. On one of those… classic TV channels. All night. Like, twelve episodes in a row." His eyes flashed, going narrow then wide. "He said… Sam told me the show reminded him of his brother." He trailed off, blinked his gaze back to the floor and sat down, head in his hands. "It was like, the only time he even mentioned you…"

Now Dean swallowed—tried to ignore the sting. Tried to ignore the invasive thoughts of Sam not wanting him there, of Sam not needing him there and, despite Sam's protests, thoughts that Sam might have really been better off back there in… _that_ life. That maybe he'd been safer. That maybe, if Dean hadn't dragged him away, Sam's elusive imaginary-life bubble might have remained intact.

Which was stupid. The thing—the demon—would've come for Jessica anyway…

Maybe.

"Of course, I thought he meant you just like… _liked the show_ or something," Charlie finished.

Dean swallowed again, the lump clogging his throat abruptly thick. He turned away to palm his sternum, pressing down over his heart with the ridge of his thumb, trying to force out the rising tide of emotions that didn't want to leave.

Growling, giving in, he lifted the phone and dialed once more. "Sam, barrier the grave before you start digging," he barked and bit down on the rest of it, hanging up before Sam could protest or agree, hanging up before he could say something stupid like—_whatever that ghost did to me, I can feel it when you're away. And what if something happens to you? What if I'm not there to stop it?_

* * *

The cemetery, hidden in the hills at the edge of town, felt… _dark._

Darker than Sam expected, even with a storm covered sky.

It was deserted, as Sam expected it to be.

Quiet.

The sound of the bordering river all that greeted them when they got out of the car.

Quiet in a way that felt… _abrupt. _Stirring the hairs on his arms. More particularly after listening to Dean issue his strident order over the phone before hanging up on him again—_barrier the grave_.

It was an extra-cautious measure they didn't usually take. But as Sam opened the trunk to re-examine their salt supply, he thought they probably had enough to do it. And figured tonight, for Dean, he'd take the extra step in deference to his brother having stayed behind. Silently, he handed Jack the canisters before shouldering Dean's army green duffle with the rest of their supplies. Gripping a shovel in one hand, and a wide-beamed flashlight in the other, he led Jack into the graveyard.

The cemetery was expansive—Earl was supposed to be buried in the northwest quadrant—nearest the river. "I think it's this way," he said, just to be saying something. "Look for a town marker—I don't think there will be a headstone."

"Okay," Jack agreed, clicking on the extra light Sam had handed him.

Sam's cell phone felt heavy in his pocket as he walked and he half-expected it to ring again. To be Dean, again. Which was fine, as long as it meant Dean was still staying put.

It was weird feeling this protective of his brother—wearying. Encompassing.

It made his teeth itch.

Made him wonder, had he really ever seen his brother as so… _always there?_

Because it's not like he hadn't seen Dean hurt before. Wasn't like he hadn't been scared for him before.

What made this so different?

Too many close calls?

Because Dean had now been too sick for too long?

Because Dad wasn't here and Sam felt more responsible? Or—

Abruptly, Sam thought of the fight he'd had with Dean after their Dad had called them—the fight that had temporarily separated them. Where Sam had met Meg and told her everything about his family that drove him crazy, all the things that made him feel completely justified in leaving—justified in going his own way, in getting on a bus to California—before uneasy thoughts of Dean and animated killer scarecrows had suddenly started to invade.

He wondered if his pre-Stanford self might have gotten on that bus to California anyway, whether Dean had answered his phone or not.

His post-Stanford self knew better. His post-Stanford self wasn't willing to take the risk.

Pastor Jim had once told him that a sign of youth was thinking you were immune to something just because it hadn't happened to you yet. At the time he'd said it, Sam thought Pastor Jim was just reinforcing his cautionary mandate to check the swimming hole for debris after a storm—before any of them jumped in and accidentally stepped on board with a rusty nail. Now, he was pretty sure Jim had been talking about his whole life.

Pre-Stanford Sam had kept expecting his Dad to wake up one day and realize his view of the world was wrong. That Sam was right—about everything. Sam never expected to be the one with the shoe on the other foot. He'd actually thought he could leave and be normal, that he could pretend he didn't know the things he knew—as if leaving their messed up life and pretending to be like everyone in the world who didn't _know_ would make him immune to loss.

And then Jess—a painful enough event all on its own, but one that sharpened every thought of his mother he'd never let himself dwell on before.

Then came not being able to find Dad.

And Dean's electrocution.

Sam was grown up now. He had no delusions that he was immune to anything. Which made the terror—the _possibility—_of losing Dean so much more than it ever had been. Fresh and hot and keenly there.

Was this how Dean had felt, at age four, after losing Mom?

How had he been able to stand it? Having had something so constantly there, someone who wasn't supposed to ever leave suddenly just be gone? It made sense now, the way Dean stuck to Dad and Sam like loss was all he could think about. It'd been there right in front of him, but Sam had never really seen it—distracted by being so frustrated with all the things he didn't understand about his brother.

Dad had seen it—he must have. Maybe he ignored it most of the time, but when they'd come to Lander that first time, he'd known who the ghost would go for.

Sam's dream came back to him—Dad asking, _did you lose him?_

Scary how automatic his answer had been. How real it had felt. Dean wasn't supposed to be losable.

Sam bit his lip—nearly laughing aloud at the naive thought.

Despite the effort, a mirthless sound escaped him—bitter, or crazy sounding, in the silence of the graveyard.

"You okay?"

Jack's voice startled him. Not the question—the _voice_, as deep as Dean's but tonally different. Yet the words were so perfectly timed—so precisely when he would have expected Dean to ask the same question.

He swallowed twice, before he shrugged his answer. "Just worried… 'bout my brother." Jack didn't say anything, and for whatever reason, Sam felt compelled to continue. He cleared his throat. "He doesn't really do—_waiting_—very well."

Jack nodded, saying nothing, but the hint of expression on his face gave Sam the impression that the good doctor had drawn those conclusions about Dean all on his own. And Sam didn't have to add the more concerning worry—that Dean might somehow pass out again during their separation, that he'd get back to the motel and find him, again—down for the count.

Flashing his light across the headstones, he checked the river's location and readjusted their course, glancing back at Jack, who also looked worried, despite his classically schooled features. "So, I guess Charlie didn't take it too well?" Sam ventured.

Jack moved even with him, swinging his own light over the markers around them. Even in the dark, Sam could see Jack's lips twitch into a smile that caught Sam off guard. "I knew he'd be mad at me for not telling him about Elly sooner. He's just like that—takes things personally, like I didn't tell him because I didn't trust him or something."

"But you do?"

Jack shook his head, but it wasn't a negation. He gave another half grin—an expression that reminded Sam painfully of Dean. Healthy Dean.

"It was never about trust," said Jack.

* * *

Charlie drew his legs up—resting elbows on bent knees as he fingered the stitches disappearing into his hairline and watched Dean Winchester pace—like a tiger in a cage.

Like a very large tiger in a very tiny cage.

Charlie touched his stitches again. His head hurt—behind his eyes, at the top of his neck. Which was comforting, really. Because maybe it meant he had a really serious head injury and was therefore having one of those insanely realistic dreams. A hallucinogenic dream. Maybe he'd wake up on the floor back at the cabin where the vase had smashed into him. Someone—Donna or Garrett—would tell him there really had been an earthquake despite negating seismographic readings. Someone would tell him objects hadn't been flying off the shelf at random, that Sara hadn't been screaming like a lunatic about someone having moved too far away from her.

And someone would tell him that Jack and Sam—formerly the two most levelheaded people on the planet—weren't really off digging up a grave somewhere to… _light it on fire_… or whatever.

Maybe he really was in _The_ _Twilight Zone_.

The thought made him look over at Dean, who was whispering something to himself, running his fingers over the map with the colored pins, a low slope to his shoulders.

Charlie blinked, and thought—if this was just a dream, or _The_ _Twilight Zone_—what harm was there in indulging it a tad? Besides, there were things he wanted to know. Large pacing tiger or not, Sam's brother was the designated tour guide to this land he'd stepped into.

"So these ghosts…" he trailed off, stuck by the insanity.

"What?" Dean questioned, but didn't look at him.

Charlie cleared his throat, and tried again. "These ghosts," he started, "how… I mean… why…" He was lost, fumbling. Jack had given him a breakdown, and he'd gathered a bit more from watching the conversation afterward but—

Dean still didn't look at him, but he grunted and started speaking, filling in the spaces of Charlie's question, like he was used to it. "Ghosts are usually spirits that can't move on. Like when you have an argument with someone and just can't let it go, you keep rehashing it and telling it to anyone who will listen. Only, in this case, all three of them couldn't let go—of life, of each other. Whatever happened between them kind of stuck them together."

"So they're… stuck in an eternal argument that started over fifty years ago? And since they haven't been able to resolve it yet… the people they latch onto are the people they think will listen to their side?"

"Maybe." Dean paced away from the map to pick up the pad of paper on the chest between the beds.

"Okay, and they're like… mixed up. How does that work exactly… and why don't they do the same thing to the people they mess with… some disappearing… and… I mean, if they're stuck together… don't they all have to go after the same thing?" Charlie swallowed. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation."

"Not exactly," Dean explained absently, relating his three-ghosts-in-the-same-car analogy while rubbing at his forehead with the pad he'd picked up—like he had a headache of his own.

"So you're saying Addison Wright is dead because the ghosts all agreed on the direction of their _car_? Or because the right one was in the driver's seat? What'd they do, pull over and take a vote? Flip a coin? 'I get to drive this time, you drove last time?'"

"Something like that," Dean allowed.

_Of course_, thought Charlie. Maybe he wasn't in an episode of _The_ _Twilight Zone_. Maybe it was an episode of _Amazing Stories_—he'd always liked the one about the Mummy. He almost said the quip aloud but stopped himself, abruptly afraid Dean Winchester would tell him those were supposedly real too.

Charlie fell back into silence—watching, and if Dean was aware of it, he didn't seem to mind.

Watching him made Charlie remember again _The_ _Twilight Zone_ reruns—he and Sam wrecked from midterms. The sharpness of stress and lack of sleep had hit their peak of influence around episode seven, when Charlie had noticed Sam wearing a deep line between his eyebrows as he stared at the television—an ache in his eyes Charlie had known existed but had rarely seen evidence of.

It wasn't until episode ten that Sam's hollow voice said the show reminded him of his brother. _"I worry about him sometimes—just… if he's okay."_

_"Do you ever talk to him?" _Charlie had asked. Cautious. Because Sam didn't talk about this stuff beyond the odd casual reference.

Sam had merely shrugged his answer. But Charlie had known then, whatever the story was with Sam and his family, it wasn't about Sam not loving them.

Dean walked back to the wall, holding the pad, furrowing his brow at the map like it held the answers of the universe.

Still watching, Charlie cleared his throat—a little louder than necessary.

This time, Dean did look at him, the expression on his face so rawly intense it felt like sharp gravel scraping against bare knees—danger and worry against a graying pallor.

And Charlie thought—if he were Dean's brother, he would probably worry about him too.

* * *

Sam sunk his shovel into the dirt, trying to keep his full mind on the simple task of digging a grave. Water droplets kept sliding down his knuckles, dripping from the rainwater collecting in his hair. The on-again off-again drizzle was starting up again. Sam paused in his shoveling to walk a circle around the barrier of salt, checking for spots where it might have clumped or dissolved.

Jack paused in his shoveling also, looking muddy and soaked around the edges. Eyes wary for trouble Sam might sense.

Shaking his head, Sam jumped back in the hole.

"What about the rest of it?" he asked two shovelfuls later, wanting to address at least one of the things weighing on his mind but not sure how to form the whole question—not sure if Jack would get what he was really asking—and feeling sort of surprised how much the answer mattered to him.

"What?"

"Charlie. How did he take all the… ghost stuff?"

To Sam's surprise Jack tipped his head back and laughed. When he spoke, he seemed to know exactly what Sam was fishing for. "Don't worry, he'll come around."

Sam took a breath with a tiny edge of relief—realizing belatedly that he'd stopped shoveling while waiting for the answer. At least it didn't sound like Jack was saying Charlie never wanted to speak to him again. Sam wasn't sure if it was just the friendship he was worried about. Maybe it was selfish but it was the symbolism of it too—the tie to Jess, the tie to the simple world he'd once lived in.

Behind him, shoveling steadily, Jack laughed again. "And, if he doesn't come around, he'll at least find a way to have us both committed—visit us every week until they declare us sane again."

This time, Sam laughed too—just enough to ease a fraction of the tightness in his chest. And it worked, for the most part… cutting a chip off his worry and easing the cold knotting in his stomach.

He shook himself to get moving again, resuming quickly, sinking his shovel deeper and deeper into the soggy dirt, vision narrowed to his task.

He noticed when the drizzle left them again.

He didn't notice the fog that started to take its place—crawling its way off the river—creeping in over one low row of headstones, then another, in slow white puffs.

And he didn't notice the old man with the craggily bitter smile walking slowly with it.

* * *

Dean kept coming back to three things. The map. Addison Wright. And Charlie's sarcastic question about casserole ghosts stopping to take votes on their next cohesive action. And beneath those things—the worrisome way Elly'd looked at Sam—the worrisome and cryptic way she'd spoken.

They needed the location of the third body. They could just end it all if they had the location of the third body. Dean had a hunch, but hunch was all it was. They could try to confirm it using the same method their dad had used to find Prisal One—but neither time, nor the needed supplies were on their side. They couldn't waste time shooting in the dark.

They needed to know why Addison Wright hadn't come back. She'd argued with a loved one—same as the others. What made her different? Had her feelings been stronger, more desperate? When his friends had hiked faster than him, leaving him behind in the fog, Trace Collins had supposedly feared they weren't coming back for him. Though she'd never said it, Elly'd been afraid Jack would return to finish his residency in Boston rather than stay with her. But Addison—she'd already left her husband. Damage already done. Was that important? Did it matter?

All three had been afraid—

Dean started, staring at the map—at the spot where Addison's husband said she'd disappeared. At the spot where Sam had hunched and groaned in pain even though it'd been daylight and there'd been no visible ghost. "Sam's been having dreams about me," he said, not realizing it'd been out loud until Charlie looked over at him with confusion.

"Sam's been having dreams—nightmares—about me," he said louder. "We thought… he thought they were connected to his visions but—"

"Connected to his _what?_"

"—but they're not." Dean was talking to himself now. _Three ghosts. One already weakened—another about to be_. Even if Dean didn't know how these ghosts were deciding on the direction of their _car_, he knew for certain—once Earl's body was salted and burned—the ghost that wanted Sam would be in the driver's seat.

Spinning abruptly, he grabbed the shotgun he'd laid out next to the TV, then started toward the nightstand with the extra ammunition, blood rushing in his ears, angry at the way he had to reach out to the bed to catch his balance when something in his chest clenched—unaware of Charlie's wide eyes or the way he'd scrambled to his feet.

"Son of a _bitch_," Dean growled, all the rest of the words he wanted to say trapped behind dizziness, but valiantly bulldozing a trench through his mind.

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996_

Biting his lip, Dean flattened his hands against the mattress, dug his heels into it too, making a valiant attempt to shift himself up against the headboard. The effort cost him more than he thought it would—white lightness buzzing in his head in the aftermath of the few inches he'd gained.

"Dean," John reprimanded, but moved closer to help Dean sit higher. "You shouldn't be up yet."

Drawing air through his nose, Dean hoped he didn't look as pale as he felt, but didn't otherwise respond to his father's gruff worry. He let his eyes flick past him, out the window to where he could see Sammy doing sit-ups on a wide flat platform in the middle of the playground. "Is he okay?" he asked. The look Sammy'd had on his face earlier still bothered him.

There was silence, then a sigh before his dad answered. "He's been having nightmares—bad one last night. He tried to wake you up but you weren't having it—took about five minutes for me to get you awake enough for Sammy to calm down. You remember me waking you up?"

Dean nodded, but felt how his eyes got wide, and couldn't hide his hesitation when he answered, "twice?"

Dad nodded, shadowed relief on his face telling Dean he'd given the right answer. "That ghost messed with you good. But it's gone. It'll just take a few days for you to feel back to normal."

Dean started to nod, but his gaze flicked to Sammy again—now doing pushups on the same platform.

He was startled when John reached out to rub his head. John paused, looking almost embarrassingly aware of the display of affection now that Dean was awake, but it didn't stop him from doing it. His own eyes flicked out the window. "He was scared for you," John explained. "You kind of… rocked his foundation there, kiddo. When you start to look a little less pale, he'll get over it."

Dean swallowed, trying to consciously force out the tight burning in his chest, and, using weakness as the excuse, leaned into his father's gesture, grateful for the rub of the calloused thumb across his forehead, wishing he could tell his dad about cracked foundations and Mom and fears—and how damn grateful he'd been for the stupid singing.

* * *

tbc

* * *

Thank you Geminigrl11 and Faith.


	27. Chapter 27

To those of you still actually reading this…

Cast your mind back into the first season aftermath of Faith… because that is where this story… still is.

* * *

**Part 27**

* * *

_Lander Wyoming, 2006_

Jack's shovel was scraping against wood and Sam was feeling the anticipation of _relief_ and _finally done_ in the ache of his muscles when the voice came—a subtle, muted, wind-washed whisper so barely there, instinct told Sam to blame his imagination.

Childhood training and the cold tingle down his spine told him different.

He straightened and stilled—hands tight on his shovel—holding his breath in an attempt to hear past it.

The voice didn't disappoint.

It came again, as soft as before but suddenly _painful _as well—the whisper cutting through his brain like sharp ice.

The voice _inside_ like it had been the other night in the canyon.

He dropped his shovel with a surprised grunt, reflexively fisting his hands in his hair, keeping his eyes open because _something_ was coming, _something_ was there, and he wanted to _see_.

Jack made a coarse throaty sound beside him and Sam twisted. The doctor's eyes were wide and worried in his falsely calm face—staring out at a heavy mist of gathering fog that was creeping toward them. Familiar fog—unnatural fog—coming from the direction of the _river_.

And Sam was too late in remembering everything he and Dean had been taught about rivers and canyons and the conduits and pathways of the supernatural—too late in noting that maybe the fog itself hadn't been as important as its source.

Keeping one hand racked in his hair, even though the pain had ebbed when the voice went silent, Sam groped for the satchel on the lip of the grave, seeking for his shotgun. "Stay inside the salt," he said to Jack—unnecessarily, because Jack hadn't moved a muscle.

Then again, maybe staying inside the salt didn't really matter. Maybe Dean had been right about salt not being able to protect them from this, because even though Sam and Jack were inside a ring of it, Sam was still hearing a voice and feeling _pain_ and maybe the only reason Dean had asked—_told_—him to lay the barrier in the first place was that it was… _better than nothing._

_He… can't… help… you… _the voice resounded again, each word a sharp sudden staccato burst that had Sam gripping his head tighter, forgoing his search for the shotgun, and almost falling to his knees.

_You're alone,_ it continued, the whisper of it rougher, harsher—like sandpaper scraping just under his skin.

"Do you hear it?" Sam asked Jack in a gasping voice—when the whisper stopped and he could catch his breath.

Jack's eyes darted in his direction before going back to the fog. Sam could see the thrum of his pulse below his jaw—the hum of nervousness in his frozen stance. "I can only see its lips moving," Jack answered, voice hollow with awe—the last vestiges of disbelief he might have been clinging to gone in a blink.

_Lips moving?_ Sam flicked his own eyes back to the fog, this time seeing what he'd missed before—what he'd missed because the image advancing on them alternated between fading into fog and sharpening to brightness.

It was, undoubtedly, the spirit of Earl Taggart—tattered suit, withered body, wrinkled face, wispy tufts of white hair melting up into the fog around him as he stepped slowly to the edge of the salt line, glaring at Sam with malice.

Sam never saw the lips move.

Whatever Jack was seeing, Sam wasn't.

Not exactly.

And whatever caused the gap in their perceptions—casserole ghosts or latchers or what—all Sam knew was Earl's mouth stayed staunchly shut even as he heard the voice tauntingly hiss—_You left him behind… You're… all… alone_.

This time, Sam did drop to his knees, folding down in an effort to protect all the things inside himself that suddenly felt like they were being pulled apart. Tried to protect himself from the deep ache spreading through his limbs—an ache like panic and sorrow and _loss_. Familiar loss. Loss that left him feeling like he had in his dream—right before Dean's unconscious body was dragged away from him.

"No," he moaned, "_No_," then sucked in a desperate breath and gasped, "_Dean_."

* * *

"Wait… just _wait_!" Charlie held his hands up as he stood between Dean and the door, not entirely sure if he was saying the words to Dean or himself because things were happening far too quickly for him to process. Too quickly, even though he'd watched the build up of Dean faltering around the room grabbing things—the weapons, his jacket. The _map—w_atched as Dean stumbled to the cluttered wall—white faced as he'd ripped the map from it, pins scattering as he fumbled to fold it into his pocket.

Charlie had watched it all without comprehension—as lost in this as he'd been all night. None of Dean's actions had really registered _intent_ with him until Dean was suddenly heading for the door and everything clicked into place in Charlie's mind.

He'd moved, standing between Dean and the door without really stopping to consider why.

"Wait," he repeated.

"Get out of my way, kid."

Charlie flashed back to the _tiger in a tiny cage_ analogy and swallowed hard, because it wasn't smart to stand between a caged tiger and supposed freedom, but—"Where are you going?"

"To get my brother," Dean growled, wobbling on his feet, blinking furiously.

Charlie talked faster. "But Sam… I thought… I thought Sam wanted you to stay here. I mean... your heart... you're sick."

Dean's face darkened—the hand not holding the shotgun twitched into a fist.

Charlie's jaw snapped shut and he took a step backward.

Dean didn't take the swing Charlie expected him to take. He lifted his fist, pressed it briefly—sharply—over his own sternum before dropping it, uncurling it while pinning Charlie with a fierce glare.

Charlie took another step back, out of the way, but he felt jittery and conflicted as he watched Dean move past him to start struggling with door. It was difficult to just stand there—to not help get the door open or find a way to keep it closed.

Dean finally got it open—by himself—letting in a rush of storm-cooled air while stumbling from the effort.

Charlie's brain chose then to remind him of the desperate, forceful—_panicked_—tone Sam's voice had been edged with when he'd shouted for Jack after Dean had passed out back at the cabin. The same tone that had backlit Sam's voice when he'd argued with Dean earlier that night—telling him to stay behind in this room while he left with Jack to do that… grave robbing... arson... thing.

And now?

Now Dean thought _Sam_ was in trouble, and if Sam was in trouble, did that mean Jack was too?

Charlie's heart pounded in his chest, the echo of blood rushing to his ears. He had no idea what was happening… _Twilight Zone_, _Amazing Stories_, and _one hell of a head injury_ still warring for most likely explanation.

He didn't have the slightest clue what he was supposed to do here. Didn't know what he _could_ do.

Nothing made sense.

And nothing he'd thought made sense made sense.

And nothing—_nothing_—was as it seemed. Sam and Dean and _Jack_. _Heart condition_, Loony Toon fiancée, commando-Sam, and _ghosts_. This was all sorts of messed up.

And Sam—

_This is my older brother Dean… _

Charlie blinked, trying but not quite able to keep the memory of Sam's voice away as he watched Dean step back to swing the door wider, white knuckles clenching the doorknob—as thought the grip could actually help him keep his balance.

Charlie opened his mouth. "But you don't… you don't have a… Sam took your car," he tried as Sam's voice continued to scroll through his head.

_His heart was… damaged…_

"I'll _get_ a car," Dean growled low, fierce, and Charlie backed against the wall, bumping into it, swallowing hard as Dean took a step outside—and stumbled to his knees the moment he got past the doorjamb.

_He's okay… he's just… stubborn._

Charlie startled when Dean dropped. He hunched toward him unconsciously, reaching out instinctively, stopping just short of gripping Dean's shoulder—where common sense kicked in and he thought maybe he should sooner consider touching an angry tiger than Dean Winchester on his knees—boundaries bricked around him so firmly they might as well have been a physical reality.

_Yes, actually, he's been sick… seriously sick…_

Charlie held his breath and waited.

Breathing heavily, Dean let go of the shotgun, dropping it on the cement near his knee before pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, whispering something to himself Charlie couldn't decipher. But it sounded desperate and determined and hopeless all at once.

_I worry about him sometimes… just… if he's okay…_

"Jack's car," Charlie blurted, unintentionally crouching a little more—still not touching. "We can take Jack's car. I have a key, we can… I'll drive you… okay? Can you… can you stand?"

Dean looked up at him, light from the streetlamp in the parking lot highlighting the green of his eyes. Charlie felt that sharp, abrasively raw feeling scrape against him again, and held his breath. He was ridiculously relieved when he saw Dean nod—a gesture Dean managed to make appear angry and painfully grateful both.

"It's that one," Charlie pointed when Dean was standing and seemed capable of staying that way.

"Let's go," Dean responded, gripping the shotgun, voice rough—but stronger than Charlie expected.

"My jacket… the keys… I'll meet you at the car."

Dean was already moving.

Charlie darted inside, pulled his jacket off one of the chairs, then wasted time scrabbling at the pockets because he couldn't remember which one had Jack's extra keys, and felt the vibes of Dean's impatience cutting across the entire parking lot and into the room.

He ran into Blake just as he was closing the door.

"Hey, Charlie," Blake greeted—amiable. "We're going to get pizza before we start the next movie. You coming back up to watch with us or what?"

He fumbled shrugging on his jacket and clutched his hands around the keys. "Uh… no. Go ahead without me. I'll uh…"

"What's up?" asked Blake, eyes narrowing.

"Nothing," Charlie answered, glancing out to see Dean had made it to Jack's vehicle and was bracing his hands on the roof—shotgun somewhere out of sight. Even through the darkness Charlie could see Dean's eyes were closed. He focused back on Blake. "Nothing's up… I just… we just… I've got to go."

He'd always been a freakin' lousy liar anyway.

He crushed the keys in his grip and stepped out into the drizzle.

Blake's gaze tracked to Dean and back to Charlie in a flash. "Where's Sam?" he asked.

"He went with Jack…" Charlie stumbled.

"With Jack? Where?"

"_Charlie!_" Dean shouted.

"Look, I… I gotta go. I'll talk to you later," he said, and bolted.

There was no explanation he could give Blake anyway, sane or otherwise, so he left him, jogging across to Dean without a backward glance—left Blake standing with wrinkled eyebrows, suspicion and utter confusion on his face.

* * *

Sam didn't hear Jack call his name—didn't see him reach for the shotgun in the open bag at the edge of the grave.

But he heard the blast.

And abruptly, felt the ripping sensation inside him cease.

"Sam?"

Sam looked up to see the smoking gun in Jack's hands, Earl gone, and a look of amazement on Jack's face. It took a long moment for him to process what Jack had done. Took a moment longer for him to pull his brain away from _no, please no_, panic and _Dean_.

"Are you okay?"

Sam worked his jaw open, slowly trying to make his muscles uncoil, careful, in case the absence of pain was just a trick. "I'm okay," he lied, glancing around, feeling worn and white—feeling Dean's absence like a missing limb. "Are you?"

Jack's mouth twisted. "I think mostly I was still hoping I was crazy," he answered, maybe more serious than joking—_probably_ more serious than joking.

Jack reached out a hand to help Sam to his feet.

"Thanks," Sam murmured hoarsely, gaze sweeping over the still-dense fog, rubbing the knuckles of one fist roughly into his temple and over his damp hair.

"I can't believe that worked," Jack mumbled. Sam heard the shake in his voice. "Is it gone?"

"For now," Sam answered, "but it'll be back." He reached down for his shovel, looking at the thin layer of mud still covering the coffin. "If you see it again—"

"Gotcha." Jack re-gripped the shotgun, eyeing the fog.

Flipping the shovel backward—fighting to steady his hands—Sam pushed the edge of it along the coffin's surface, using it like a blade to scrape away the leftover dirt, intent on clearing just enough space to allow him to splinter it.

Because it _would_ be back and they didn't have much time.

* * *

Jack's car didn't start on the first try.

Dean growled. A flare of panic followed—the foreign yet familiar hum rushing in his ears, making every single muscle in his chest feel tight, pressured, like something was trying to force all his air out of him at once. He closed his eyes and beat his fist against the car door, twice—forcefully filled his lungs and tried to calm himself the hell down.

He barely held himself back from reaching over, knocking Charlie's hand away, and giving the keys in the ignition an insistent twist.

It took effort to _not_.

Almost as much effort as it took to willingly sit in the passenger seat.

He restrained himself because, despite the panic, the need to _get to Sam_, and the want to make things happen faster, Dean did have _some_ common sense.

Charlie knew the roads better—could get them to the cemetery faster.

And of course there was the whole _trying not to pass out_ thing—which always made driving a pretty bad idea.

Charlie tossed him a nervous grimace as he pumped the gas and twisted the keys again—looking overtly relieved when the engine actually caught.

The car lurched forward.

Dean braced his free hand against the seat, the other holding the salt-loaded shotgun in a grip so tight, his hand ached.

"Are you okay?" Charlie asked—tone wary.

Dean grunted. "How far?"

"About fifteen minutes."

Dean made a sound, low in his throat—desperate, involuntary.

Charlie sort of jerked in response. "I'll drive as fast as I can."

"Thanks," Dean tried to say, forcing another deep breath in an attempt to clear the panic fogging his head. He held the air till it began to burn, then let it out slowly and shifted on the seat. He felt something hard in his pocket when his leg brushed against the door and felt like an idiot when he remembered his cell phone.

_Come on, Dean._ He cussed himself under his breath and flipped the phone out, hitting familiar buttons and waiting for an answer.

"_Holy—!_" Charlie spat out, unexpectedly slamming on the brakes. The car jerked to a stop, sending the phone flying out of Dean's hand.

"What the hell?" Dean twisted in his seat.

Out the front windshield, right in front of the car, in the middle of the street, stood Elly. Illuminated pale by the headlights—pale enough to look ghostly, and… real enough to be soaked from the drizzle.

She stepped up to the car, yanked open the backdoor and slid inside. "You're going after it," she said, eyes vibrant, "aren't you?"

Dean didn't know what to say. From the look on his face, Charlie didn't have anything either.

Elly gripped the back of their seats, digging into the leather. "I know you are." Both her eyes and her voice seemed more lucid, less detached, less—_crazy_—than they'd been since Dean met her. "I need to come."

Charlie glanced at Dean, foot still holding down the brake, uncertain, and clearly waiting for Dean to give him a direction.

"Jack's out there," she said to Charlie.

Charlie's face pinched in response, looking to Dean in panic.

"And something's about to happen." She turned to Dean also. "Something's about to happen. And she wants your brother."

Dean felt his heart pick up pace, thudding painfully in his chest.

"I can hear them," she explained. "They're louder now. _She's_ louder now."

_She_—not _he_. Not the old man. Which meant Dean was right and the one—the part of the casserole reaching for Sam—was the one that had stayed hidden up till now.

Maybe the one that had mattered most all along.

"_Dean?_" The tiny tin voice coming from the direction of their feet startled both Dean and Charlie.

It took Dean a second to remember the phone again.

He started to bend forward but Charlie was quicker, grabbing it off the floor and handing it over. He took his foot off the brake after, guiding Jack's car out onto the main street with speed.

"_Dean?_"

"Sam?" said Dean. "You okay?"

"_Yeah_," Dean heard, but it didn't sound right. _Sam_ didn't sound right. Out of breath. Stressed. _Something_. And Dean couldn't blame it on the crackle of static in their poor connection. Something had happened.

"Sam—"

"_We're almost done_," Sam cut in. Dean could hear the attempt Sam made for his voice to sound stronger, normal.

"Wait, Sam. Don't burn the body. Not yet. Wait for me—just wait till I get there."

Silence.

"Sam?"

A buzz of static crackled in his ear.

"Sam?" he tried again.

A final whir of static, then nothing.

The connection was gone.

* * *

Sam splintered the coffin on his first try. Which was a feat because the box Earl was buried in wasn't as decayed as most of the others he and Dean had busted through—Earl having not been dead as long.

He moved backward a step, prepared to splinter another opening farther down.

He lifted the shovel, ready to strike—

The shock wave of pain hit before he even registered the voice—pain stronger, words quicker, even though the voice felt softer.

_Did you think it wouldn't matter?_

Sam gasped.

_Did you think you could just fix it? _

The shovel fell from his fingers.

_Did you think you could change it?_

_Reverse it?_

_Take it back?_

_Have none of it turn… to… ash? _

Sound and sense seemed both to retreat and amplify.

_Did you really think you wouldn't end up alone?_

He plastered his hands over his ears, as if he could block it out.

He knew it wasn't real, because he kept his eyes open and could see it wasn't, but it still felt—it felt like Jessica burning on the ceiling, it felt like the time Dean once again repeated the slim facts of their mother's death to him when Sam had finally been old enough to understand that what had happened meant more than him and Dean not having a mom.

It felt like his dad telling him to—_Get out if you care so damn little about this family, and if you go, stay gone._

And it felt like Dean. It felt like Dean was dead on the ground in front of him—cold, blue, and irreversible.

He stayed standing—barely—peeling one hand off his ear to balance himself with a grip on the dirt wall beside him.

And looked up.

There—Earl—crouched by the salt line, craggily smile slow drawn and gaping.

Above him, standing on the lip of the grave, Jack pointed the shotgun and fired directly into Earl's face.

The form screeched, flashed, and disappeared.

But the vanishing sound from the gaped open mouth didn't sound like the voice Sam had been hearing… or _feeling_. Sam blinked, feeling slow, like he was treading limbs under deep water.

Before he realized what was happening, Jack's hands were on him, one strong grip pulling on his shoulder, fingers from the other settling confusingly on Sam's throat.

_Pulse_, Sam realized. He's taking my pulse.

It took another moment to realize Jack was also saying his name.

He shrugged away. "We have to salt and burn," he said. His voice sounded loud in his own ears.

Jack looked like he wanted to say something but didn't. Instead, he reached down with strong grips to Sam's forearms, using ridiculously little effort to pull Sam up and out—catching him as he stumbled to his knees.

_Jack's strong_, Sam remembered—remembered thinking it when Jack had carried Dean from the cabin to the car.

_Dean_.

_Oh, God—help me. _ _Dean._

"What do we do next?"

Sam swallowed, feeling claustrophobic in the fog.

"_Sam?_ _Sam!_ Tell me what to do next."

"Salt," Sam answered numbly, shaking his head to clear it, breathing heavily through his nose. He gestured for the canister and Jack grabbed it, started to shake it into the grave. "And gasoline. Then we have to… light it."

He had waterproof matches somewhere in his pocket, and there were a couple lighters in the bag. He started to pat his leg, feeling for the box underneath.

He was starting to feel marginally more in control, brain clearing, but otherwise still felt about five years old, because he wanted _Dean_. Wanted to know he was okay—because even though somewhere in his brain Sam knew it was the ghost doing this to him, it still felt like Dean wasn't—wasn't there, wasn't okay—just _wasn't_.

_Get this done—just get this done,_ he told himself.

Not finding the matches, he grappled forward for the lighters, wishing the propped-up flashlight they'd been working by gave just a little more light.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He gripped it, pulling it out with shaky, mud-slicked fingers.

The lit screen said _Dean_. He almost laughed. Almost. He'd have to sound at least a little in control when he answered it. He swallowed, glancing around himself nervously, waiting for Earl's reappearance. "Dean?"

Nothing.

Sam straightened, tensed, strained to listen through the phone and tried again, "Dean?"

"_Sam?_"

Sam huffed in relief. _Idiot! Don't do that to me!_

"_You okay_?"

"Yeah," Sam lied—knew immediately that it came out wrong. And not just because his voice hitched on the end of it.

"_Sam_—"

"We're almost done," Sam stopped him, couldn't take Dean being intuitive big brother just then—not without breaking down and bawling like a baby.

Jack gave him a nod at those words, having dumped in the last of the salt. The last of the gasoline following.

"_Wait, Sam, don't—_" A hiss of static cut over Dean's voice.

"Dean?" he said into the phone, trying to sound calmer than he felt.

Static squealed in his ear, loud and raucous. Sam shifted it away from his head but kept the mouthpiece close.

"Dean?"

Abruptly, the crackle from the phone went silent. Sam brought it back to his ear. "Dean?" he tried again.

The sharp squeal of static came back, accompanying a voice that shouted, "_Alone_!"

"Alone Alone Alone Alone _ALONE!_"

* * *

Charlie tried to keep his eyes on the road—focused through the swiping windshield wiper blades—and on the speedometer so he could attempt to maintain that mythical balance between speed and _safe_.

He tried to keep his eyes off the rearview mirror, which showed him Elly in the backseat with her eyes staring out the side window.

He was pretty sure she hadn't even blinked.

He tried to keep them off Sam's brother, who was holding himself stiffly and carefully still in the passenger seat, the white sharp angles of his face exacerbated by his closed eyes.

Dean wasn't muttering or cursing to himself anymore, but there was a soft deep sound coming from his direction—humming that sounded almost like—

_Metallica? _

Outside, the drizzle picked up, turning back into real rain. Charlie flipped the control for the wiper blades up a notch, speeding their path across the window. "What is it you think is happening?" he asked, voice loud in the silence, loud against the rain, against the splash and rumble hum of the tires on the wet street.

Dean's eyes opened and flicked in his direction.

"To Sam? And Jack?" Charlie clarified.

Dean's throat moved, like he was preparing to say something, but couldn't get it out.

Charlie decided to make his question more specific. "Back before—you said these ghosts, they're all mixed up and like… pulling people into their mess. Why Sam?"

Dean exhaled, making a sound halfway between laughter and grimace. Charlie wasn't sure he'd answer, but he did. "They're latchers. They latch onto… they latch onto emotions, fears—infect people. Amplify them. Sam's been… he has nightmares. He's had a… rough month."

Charlie remembered, just days ago, standing in the cabin's kitchen, with Sam saying the same thing in almost the exact same tone.

The emotion part, Charlie got. It didn't sound so crazy because that part made sense, even among the living. It could be transferred out of the ridiculous situation he was currently in and still hold truth.

He thought about how when two angry people got together, how they could rile each other up even more until neither one could see reason—mob mentalities and bandwagons. He thought about how people freaking out over a scary movie could make each other more freaked out and more scared—build off each other until no one knew the way up or out.

That part made _sense _to him. Horrifying as that was.

But that still didn't tell him… he still didn't know—

His eyes went to the rearview mirror, and Elly, who was still staring without blinking. "And Jack?" he asked.

Dean caught Charlie's meaning. "I don't know," he answered.

Silence.

"And Elly?"

If Elly realized she was being talked about, she didn't protest.

"I don't know that either," answered Dean. "She hears them."

"So… summing up. We're going to rescue Jack and Sam from a ghost who kidnaps and infects people, and we're using the voices Jack's fiancée hears in her head to do it. Perfectly normal. Not crazy at all."

* * *

Sam flung the screaming phone away from him, shaking, rubbing his ear. He climbed to his feet, watching their surroundings with nervous awareness.

Jack looked from the phone to Sam and Sam was pretty sure Jack had heard the voice that time. "Your brother?" he asked—wary.

"At first," Sam answered, and tried not to dwell it—hoping it really had been Dean, because he'd been tricked by that before.

"We have to reload," Jack said next, breathless.

They shifted places, Sam taking the shotgun while Jack reached into the bag, hand emerging with the salt-shot and the lighter.

Their fingers were slick and unsteady as they passed the shells between them, Sam fumbling to load as the rain picked up—heavy, hard and loud.

He lifted his head at the sound, checked their surroundings and saw the barrier of salted earth wouldn't hold. Not for much longer. He could see it clumping, washing away, dissolving.

Salt hadn't been their best protection on this job, but it had been better than nothing. Up till then, it had at least kept the casserole from coming _in_.

If it got in, Sam wasn't sure what he would do.

* * *

Not being the driver of the car gave Dean too much to think about and too little to do about those thoughts—too much time to think about pain and Sam and two days of not-being-technically-unconscious in 1996.

He felt his head spin, felt it hum and tilt, the feeling of pins and needles spiking down his arms and legs. _No! _

He bit his lip, hard, drawing blood and trying to use the sharp pain of it to keep himself from losing it. Mind over matter. It wasn't working very well but… it was all he had.

_Sam is okay, _he told himself. _Just a bad connection_ and _Sam is not gone _and…and even _Sam is not as afraid of losing you as you are of losing him. _Which was a lie, and he knew it, because ever since the heart-thing Sam had been… focused. Too focused. An annoying, vigilant, pain in Dean's ass. Since the heart-thing Sam had made Dean the pinpoint center of that focus—afraid of Dean dying, leaving, being gone.

Which was a contradiction to Dean.

He didn't get Sam. How could Sam be that afraid of Dean being gone but not have wanted him there when he'd been hurt at Stanford? Not have wanted him there when Dean would have wanted to be there? When Sam was hurt. When it counted.

Things changed. He knew that. But—_damn_.

Dean wanted to convince himself Sam's feelings weren't that intense, because the intensity of the fear was what was making Sam vulnerable—the intensity and the aftermath of events neither one of them was dealing with very well.

Dean remembered, after the fire—_the_ fire—thinking, if he did _everything_ right, took care of his brother like Mom said he should, listened to his father like she'd told him… if he was good enough… maybe… just maybe, his mother would come back.

When he'd gotten a little older and understood death a little better, the feelings had shifted. He'd thought if he was good enough, Dad would come back from every hunt. If he was good enough, Sam would always be okay. If he was good enough, he wouldn't lose anyone anymore.

He'd been wrong on all counts.

Mom stayed gone.

Sam left.

Dad hadn't come back.

And isn't that what Prisal One had been trying to tell him—force him to experience—when she infected him in the first place? That eventually he'd lose them all anyway?

"If you stop it," Elly said abruptly, leaning forward from the back seat, "it'll all stop, won't it? They'll stop doing to us, what they're doing to us? It'll all go back?"

Dean bit his lip again—hard, the self-inflicted pain just sharp enough to remind his body he would not succumb to this ghostly infection, would not let it take him back to where it had taken him ten years ago. Dad had fixed it, and though Dad wasn't with him now, Sam was.

He was _not alone not alone not alone_.

As long as he got to Sam in time.

He wondered if Trace Collins, far away in Philadelphia, was still feeling a residual anything from his experience—wondered if Philadelphia had been far enough to escape it. Or perhaps Trace's experience had been so minor, the infection wasn't holding onto him like it was the rest of them.

Dean had a feeling, even if he went to Philadelphia, he'd take the lingering infection with him. All he'd had to do was show back up where his ghost had been reawakened, where it could touch him, where it could reach out for someone she thought could give her absolution, understanding… a morbid kinship.

The only way to stop any of it, for all of them, was to end the casserole, because he understood now—the latching and mixing hadn't stopped with Earl and the two Prisals. It was still going, Elly and Addison, and him, and _Sam_.

He also knew, not everything would go back, not everything was reversible.

Life was never that easy.

There was always some life… some cost… that remained permanent, regardless of anything they could do.

* * *

"Light the grave," Sam bit, feeling _hurry_.

Jack did, tossing the flame into the open pit.

The hiss of fire followed, but Sam kept his eyes and weapon on the fog. The intensity of flame and heat rose into the drizzle behind him—the smell of burning body and bones and rotting wood mixing with the scent of rain and earth.

Jack stood soaked and dirt-streaked to Sam's left—looking relieved to have the task done.

Sam wanted to feel relief, but he only felt anticipation. This wasn't over and he knew it.

That was when Earl showed up again, staring at them and the fire behind them with something like curiosity on his face, but only for a moment. His image gasped and all at once seemed to melt, flicker, and split into three, snapping back into one again almost before Sam could blink.

The snapped back image was different—superimposed, like overexposed film.

Taggart—malice and misery, lips moving rapidly to form words Sam couldn't hear. A woman with a sharp jaw and sharper eyes just underneath, visible through Taggart's translucent skin. Both were fading, melting in and out of each other, while the surface image was sharpening to something more, blocking out the others until they could no longer be seen.

The final product was who Sam assumed was Prisal Two—dark-haired and glowering, smirking, opening her mouth—

Sam aimed the shotgun and pulled the trigger.

There was _click tap thud_ in response, but nothing more—the gun jammed and useless. _No! _He jerked his head up._  
_

In less than a second, everything was back—the fear and feeling like a live wire, something whispering in his head, the sensation of needles sinking deep beneath fingernails and in between toes.

The fog thickened, surrounding him in a flash.

He had nothing to grab onto.

He couldn't see Jack—couldn't see anything.

A cold grip snaked around his ankles—just like in the canyon.

Though there was no Dean to grab onto, it still felt like he was being ripped away from his brother when the grip yanked—the unreal vision of Dean dead or dying sitting stark against his memory as icy cold enveloped him—Dean limp and un-fighting, leaving it all up to Sam who, no matter how he tried, couldn't fix it, and couldn't hold on.

Then everything around him went dark and he thought maybe… maybe he heard himself scream.

* * *

Charlie jerked the car to a stop right next to the Impala.

Dean yanked the door open, stepping out, gun ready—aware by the growing pain in his body that they were too late.

The cemetery was covered with a dissipating mist. Fire burning out of a grave in the distance. Rain pounding the ground like tears. Dean could see Jack's silhouette standing against the flame but he saw nothing else… no _one_ else.

Like Trace and Elly and _Addison—_

Sam was gone.

* * *

tbc


	28. Chapter 28

According to Richard Peck, _literacy_ and _delayed gratification_ were once the principles any good education was founded on. Can I now say I've contributed to both? (I do find myself hilarious, yes, thanks for asking.)

For those of you wanting to wait until the very end to read: worry not, I will mark the story as "complete" when it _is_ complete so there will be no question.

* * *

**Part 28**

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006_

To Blake, spending the afternoon in the Pronghorn Lodge was a fine idea—in theory.

After the insanity of the morning, the madness back at Charlie's cabin—Sara freaking out while stuff randomly flew off the walls—it was needed.

Once they'd made it out of the house and to the clinic—had seen Jack sew Charlie's cut closed and seen Sam's brother walking around fine and dandy—none of them had possessed the energy for anything else.

Blake had led the way, going over to the Lodge ahead of the others to set up rooms. Once that'd been completed, he'd taken it upon himself to do some research while waiting for his friends to show up, using the internet kiosk in the hotel lobby to check for news reports about earthquakes or rockslides in or near the canyon.

There hadn't been any.

Then the clerk at the front desk had told him that, though not widely known, Yellowstone experienced several earthquakes a year and the tremors could be felt as far away as Rock Springs. Meaning, if there _had_ been an earthquake, the tremors could have easily been felt in Lander, especially in the canyon.

Sam's brother had sneered and sniggered lightly—rolling his eyes at Sam from the passenger seat of their car—when Blake had leaned down in the window to tell them as much.

Sam had shaken his head at Dean, like he was cautioning him, like he was telling him to _cool it_. Blake had felt a tiny twist of gratification and thought, _finally!_

"We've got three adjoining rooms upstairs," Blake had said next, ignoring Dean, taking the high road.

Unfortunately, Sam's eyes had drifted back to his brother and, though his face was partially shadowed, Blake caught the flash of anxiety across it. "Thanks, but ah… we'll get our own room," Sam had answered.

Blake had felt a flare of annoyance, but said nothing.

Charlie had actually ended up getting the room for them, despite Sam's protests against him paying.

Blake hadn't said anything then either—had simply scowled and thought, _Charlie's an idiot._ He'd tried after that. To settle. To hang out with the others, despite Sam's not joining them and Charlie's disappearing act partway through. By dinner, though, he'd had enough.

Spending the afternoon cooped up in a room was no longer the theoretically stellar idea it'd once been and the walls were closing in.

"Pizza?" he suggested, rolling off the bed carefully, making a show of not jarring Sara who was asleep… again.

"Do you want to bring it back here or go out for it?" Kim asked.

"You decide," he shrugged. "I'll go find Charlie and Sam, see if they want to come—if everyone wants to stay here, we'll just bring the food back." It was all the same to him—as long as he got out of the room for a minute.

He knew Sam's room number. Figuring that's where Charlie'd gone earlier, he headed in that direction—and ran into Charlie coming out Sam's door with car keys in his fist.

Three minutes later, he was standing under the hotel's awning watching Charlie jog away from him—toward Sam's brother and Jack's car.

_Weird,_ he thought.

_Seriously_.

"Charlie's not going with us?"

The voice at Blake's elbow startled him, but he tried not to show it. Garrett looked in the direction Blake had been staring, squinting against the dark evening and the too-bright glare of the nearby streetlamp.

"No. He's not," Blake answered.

"Is that… Dean with him?"

"Yeah."

They watched as Charlie rolled his shoulders forward, looking down at something in his hands. The dome-light clicked on inside Jack's car half a second later, indicating Charlie had found the right button to successfully unlock it. The interior glow caught Dean in profile, outlining the hard angles of his face and the ridged slope of his shoulder.

"Where are they going?" Garrett asked.

"I don't know," Blake answered, deliberately precise.

"Is Dean sick again? Are they going back to the clinic?"

"I don't think so."

"Where's Sam?"

The sound of slamming car doors made Blake flex his jaw. "Apparently, Sam went somewhere with Jack."

"Where?"

"Charlie didn't say. But he was acting really tense. I think something's wrong."

The engine of Jack's car sputtered, silenced, sputtered again and started.

Blake narrowed his eyes, evaluated his own words. Charlie had been more than _tense_. He'd been… wigged out… nervous… _something_. And rushing off to go somewhere with Dean?

Dean.

_That _guy just_…_

Blake shook his head.

"What do you mean? What do you think is wrong?"

"I don't know, but… something weird is definitely going on."

Garrett cocked an eyebrow at him and chuckled. "Dude, this whole day—no—this whole _trip_ has been weird. Like, we're going to be telling stories about it for _years_. So, you might need to be more specific."

Blake ignored him. "Where are the girls?"

"In the van waiting to go get pizza—Sara woke up and they decided they're tired of being in the room," Garrett replied, seemingly disappointed at not getting Blake to commiserate with him.

"Good, let's go."

* * *

"_Son_."

The voice was close—familiar and not familiar when it touched Sam's ears. The conundrum of it mixed and matted his thoughts.

"_Sam._"

"Dad?" The word came out loud, and spindly, and harsh. Sam tried to flinch away from it, even as he realized he'd said it himself. The ripping sensation of pain from before—the _come-apart_ in a _never-able-to-get-back-together_ feeling was… not _gone_, but different.

Memory under his skin.

Clear and detailed, while all his other memories felt twisted and knotted—left him feeling heavy, spread thin, with no clear sense of events or time.

His head felt weighted—cold, like the knife of ice he'd thought had been slid between his ears had settled and was now melting slowly into his brain.

Reflexes icy slow.

He felt wet.

There'd been rain. He remembered rain.

But this was a different kind of wet.

Lying in water wet.

Floating.

And not the easy kind of floating. Not lazy-in-a-pool floating.

This was empty.

_Lonely. _

There was no sound. No lapping water.

Nothing.

Just the…

"_Wake up, son_."

* * *

_No_.

Dean hit his knees.

Pain burned down the nerve endings of his arms and legs, rushing back at his heart with added momentum—like it was moving with his blood.

_No no no-no-no_.

He curled his shoulders forward, fought the weight of his lungs and the sharp stabs in the beats of his heart—pressed one palm into his sternum and smacked the other down on the asphalt parking lot, grinding gravel purposefully into his skin.

_Not now!_

"Hey!" Charlie's voice reverberated—somewhere near his right ear. There were layers of questions in the startled word. _What's happening? Are you okay? _And_, when the hell is this nightmare going to end?_ Mixed up, mixed together, and Dean didn't have answers for any of them.

The kid hovered, uncertainty in every movement, backing off half a step at Dean's quick glare.

Dean leaned away from him, feeling exposed and angry. He kept his hand on the asphalt for balance, lowered his head and tried to just breathe.

"They have him," said Elly, voice bleeding out from somewhere behind them.

_No kidding_, Dean thought. He locked his jaw, caught the inside of his cheek between his teeth—tasted copper on his tongue.

Thick strands of silver skimmed across his vision, breaking up the image he was trying to focus on—the lone dark silhouette of Jack in the distance, sketched against Earl's flaming grave.

It was still raining, but Dean's eyes felt gritty and dry. He fought the need to blink, and when that became impossible, tried to blink without losing consciousness. When he did, Jack's silhouette had grown abruptly larger. He processed the change and understood—Jack was much closer than he had been.

Panic flared against the lost seconds of time.

_No! Come on—no! Not now, damn it!_

Pain rushed through him, thick and insistent. He swallowed down a moan—forced eyes wide in Jack's direction, and asked, "Sam?"

Jack froze several feet away, shotgun hanging loose from one arm, face showing _expression_. More expression than Dean had ever seen on the man—apology, worry, and horror—looking at Dean and then everywhere but.

"_Jack?_" It was just one word, a name, nothing, but the way Charlie said it… it was like Sam saying _Dean_.

_Sam._

Jack shook his head. "It came." He bent forward, chest heaving.

_Oh, damn it, Sam._

"He was right _there._" Jack straightened and tipped his head skyward. "I couldn't see _anything_… and when the fog started to back out… it was… he was just _gone_." Jack made a wild gesture and bent forward once more—body thrumming.

Dean shifted—tried to get his damn legs under him, tried to focus against the threatening black.

_Think! _

The others who'd disappeared couldn't have been just _gone_… Sam couldn't just be gone.

They'd gone somewhere.

Sam was _somewhere._

Dean just had to focus long enough to figure out where _somewhere _was.

* * *

"I don't think they went this way."

Blake stared at the dark road in front of him, tightened his hands on the steering wheel, and let his eyes skate to the rearview mirror to glare at Kim.

"If they'd gone this way, we'd have caught up with them by now," Kim carried on.

_Relentlessly._

"They _have_ to have gone this way," he bit, struggling to make his voice sound smooth and even. "This is the road they took when they turned off Main. It doesn't go anywhere else."

"Actually, we've passed two possible turn-offs since we hit this road. They could've taken one of those," Sara piped in.

_Unhelpfully._

Blake clicked his teeth together, didn't say anything, even though he wanted to point out that none of them were going to trust the observations of someone who'd been acting like a whacked-out loon just that morning, and claimed to not remember any of it.

Even less if she really _didn't_ remember any of it.

"This is ridiculous," Donna added from the passenger seat.

Blake sucked in his cheeks and tried not to roll his eyes. He wished he'd found a way to leave Donna back at the Lodge. She was driving him crazy.

"Why are we doing this anyway?" she asked for the _four hundred billionth time_.

Blake tried for sensitive. "I told you before, Charlie was acting weird. Then he went somewhere with Dean. And I don't trust that guy, alright? Something's up."

"_Sam_ trusts Dean," she insisted, voice clipped.

"Sam has blinders on." Sensitivity out the window. He should have known—it'd stopped working on Donna long ago.

"What are you even basing that on? You don't know anything about Sam's brother. The only reason you don't like Dean is because he's beat you at your own games and your big giant head can't handle it. You're basing all of this on _nothing_ but your own stupid ego."

The other passengers stilled, eyes darting between them.

Blake felt a flare of anger rush up to his skull. "Then why hasn't Charlie answered his phone?" he shot pointedly—fought not to let the grin he felt show on his face when Donna's expression faltered and her hand tightened over the cell phone in her lap.

"Exactly," he finished.

* * *

Cold closed over Sam's wrist, arm flinching and stiffening in response.

Then the cold hardened, became something more. Something like _touch_.

It felt—_wrong_—made his skin crawl, but when it pulled on him to sit forward, he clumsily tried to follow.

And the _voice_ was _Dad's_—sounded like Dad.

"_Sit up_," it ordered.

Sam did. He opened his eyes, swallowing against nausea and confusion to take in his surroundings. Everything was out of focus, blurred at the edges and indistinct—gapped, like his memory.

His outstretched legs rested against what looked like wood floorboards—old and cracked.

_Cold and wet_.

The low flicker of a wicker lamp cast shadows around a desolate room.

_An empty room._

But he'd heard…

"Dad?" he called again—feeling suddenly six years old. He dragged his knees up to his chest with a wince. He couldn't see any windows, and he couldn't see any doors. The rough texture his back pressed against felt like sandpaper.

"_Sam._"

Something shimmered in the corner of his eye. Shadow and light. Like someone—some_thing_—was hunched next to him, sensation of static electricity prickling his skin.

He leaned away from the space, careful and wary.

He tried to make his mind focus, tried to fill in the missing pieces that would make things make sense.

Had he been with Dad?

That didn't feel right. Dean._ Where's Dean? _

Hadn't he been with Dean?

That didn't feel right either, but—

Rain. He remembered… rain. And fog… and…

"_It was because of you."_

The shadows in the room shifted, and flickered. The lights and darks in the space next to him sharpened, creating, for a moment, the shimmering outline of a… _face._

Sam crabbed sideways, breaths jagged—putting himself in a corner.

The voice sounded like _Dad_, but there was something under it, something that caused an itch on his eardrums—so far inside his skull he'd do damage if he tried to reach in to quell it. So intense he wanted to try anyway.

"_You killed her."_

The lamp flame danced wildly, growing brighter.

Sam braced his hands against the walls to either side of him—felt splinters bite into them. Felt splintered.

Suddenly, everything went dark.

The temperature dropped.

For a wide long moment the room stayed silent.

He tucked into himself tighter, crouched on the balls of his feet—ready.

Somewhere, a baby wailed. The sound clutched at something deep and horribly familiar inside him. His heartbeat quickened, blood rushing loudly to his head.

And behind the wail—underneath it—he heard shouts of panic, of _Mary_ and _no no no,_ that sounded far away and inside his skull at the same time.

He clapped his hands over his ears, shaking his head to try to… _make it stop!_

"_It was… because of… you._"

Heat flared from the dark lamp and—that quickly—the ceiling was on fire, roar of flame spreading out from a mass of shadow above him. Shadow rapidly morphing into…

"Mom!"

He stumbled trying to stand and landed hard on his back.

_This can't be real. _

_This isn't real_.

His vision blurred just as his dad's face materialized in front of him, backlit by flame.

"_This is your fault, Sammy."_

It looked like Dad, it sounded like Dad. But the eyes were hard and hateful in a way Sam had never felt directed at him—not even in the worst of their fights.

"No," he grit, lungs hitching, fighting cold locked limbs and the weird disorienting pressure in his head that kept mangling his thoughts.

"_You brought this down on us."_

And this fire… his mother… she couldn't be here. She couldn't. And his dad…

"_We never should have saved you."_

He struggled to sit, sliding back from where John loomed. "No. This isn't real. He never said that. He _NEVER_ said that!"

John's eyes flashed darkly—shrinking back with a scowl that didn't fit his features—out of place on his lips. Then, the scowl slipped. The face wavered, flickered like the lamp, becoming something else, some_one_ else—hair in long strands around a sullen face.

Half a second later, that face flickered too, and Sam saw the flash of images underneath.

The ghosts.

The casserole.

For a moment, he remembered.

"You're _not_ him," he repeated—testing the ghost's response.

"_I don't need to be,"_ it whispered back, one image growing solid over those that lay beneath. _"I know what you did. I know what happened."_

Sam shook his head, tried to move again but felt pinned in place and saw no where to go.

"_I know," _it whispered again—sympathetic, like Sam was supposed to take solace in the understanding. _"You think you stopped it, but you didn't. He's still leaving, he's still dying—one way or another. You'll lose him. You'll end up alone."_

_Dean,_ Sam thought, then, "No! You stay away from him."

She flickered—the ghost flickered—splitting into three.

Sam swept his eyes over the others, then stared at the woman in the center.

She scowled—growled—and the three snapped back to one—her remaining pervading image glaring at him with an expression between anger and sympathy. She stepped closer, stooped, and reached a hand out to him, stopping halfway to cross the hand over her own heart instead—a sudden stabbing reminder of the way Dean had been doing that for _days._

Sam flinched and folded, trying to push away memories of Dean electrocuted in a basement, of abject desperation and Joshua's slim offering of shaky shaky hope. Of ugly grim relief and the loss of a stranger named Marshall Hall.

And wouldn't that be the kicker—to go through all that and still have to lose?

The ghost swayed, pressing her hand deeper until it disappeared into her sternum—until Sam thought he could hear echoes of a damaged heart beating through his skull. Her eyes flashed down at him, narrowing with sorrow and sympathy.

He bit his lip, held his breath—tried to control the jolt of fear and panic that seized him. Tried to control the pain that rushed through him—pain and fear—unnatural, but acutely familiar and _his his his_.

All his.

In the back of his mind, the baby wailed once more. He heard his father shout _Mary_ like an echo, and heard Dean telling him, _it's okay, Sammy,_ in a small young voice.

The ghost pulled her hand out of her sternum and reached out to him, hand morphing until it was John's again. And when Sam looked up, he saw only his father—eyes heavy and smooth.

"_I told you before, Sammy,"_ it rumbled, slow and sorrowful, in Dad's deep voice. _"It's what comes after you should worry about,"_—said it like he'd been saying it in Sam's dream. The hand stretching toward him tapped a cold finger over Sam's heart, punctuating the words.

He jerked back, banging his head.

_Not Dad_, he told himself. Rocking away, he dug fingernails into his skin. _Not Dad_.

But the spoken words echoed, rang strong and clear and _John_—were John's words even if Sam had never heard the actual John say them outside of his dream. And maybe that meant they were just Sam's own words, Sam's own truths.

_What comes after…_

_After_.

Aftermath.

Repercussions.

Ramifications.

Always _after_.

Maybe the dreams he'd been having since leaving Nebraska _hadn't_ been visions. Maybe they'd just been his brain trying to clue him in to lessons he should have learned in infancy—lessons John had tried to teach him that he'd not wanted to learn—reminding him that the biggest messes were usually the ones that came later, flooding after in the wake of original tragedy.

After the fire.

After the fight.

After leaving. After Stanford, and Jess, and coming back.

After pain and loss and bitter tough epiphanies.

After _Dean_ and the electrocution.

And oddly, that was the big one.

Ironic, because Dean had survived it—heart healed. _Not sick anymore_. Or so he insisted, but Sam…

Sam hadn't yet recovered.

Bone deep anxious strain—stone in his chest every time he looked at Dean. Irrationally frazzled—extra electric charge dancing between his nerves whenever Dean was out of sight.

Every fear deeper and sharper than he'd ever felt.

And anger. So much _anger_—anger in proportions Sam had never felt toward Dean. Toward his father, yes. Toward life, absolutely. But not toward his brother. Not Dean. Sharp jabbing sparks of it, surging, shooting head to toe when he least expected. Angry, because in the face of death, Dean hadn't just laughed—he'd stood _still_. Been pragmatic and pliant, and willing to just go. Willing to leave Sam to the family quest and just _go_.

And the ghost knew it. Knew it like the other ghost had known it with Dean.

It squatted, head tilted, staring at him. Smiling, like it was _watching_ his thoughts.

He stared back.

"_You only hurt the ones you love," _she whispered, grinning wretchedly, like she'd finally found a way for him to understand.

He shivered—tried once more to stand and crashed painfully back to his knees.

* * *

Dean tried once more to stand and crashed painfully back to his knees.

Jack moved, crouched—reached for him.

Dean flinched back—denial and reflex.

The doc stopped, spread his hands wide and kept them in Dean's vision, slow and placating.

"_Son of a—"_ Dean growled. He doubled forward—breath catching, cotton haze making his head pound wildly while the world tilted in three different directions.

A hand clamped onto his shoulder, firm but cautious, stabbing at the haze, jarring him away from face-planting on the asphalt. There was an electric-like charge in the touch, pushing back the hum between his ears. Dean gasped, sucking in air like he'd been plunged under water and just made it to the surface.

"Dean?" Charlie hunched near him, hand on his shoulder, tentative but _there_.

Dean stared at him. It was _not Sam not Sam not Sam_, but… it helped. Strangely, it helped. The sparkly dots and whirls in his vision fading—something in Charlie easing something in Dean, big brother to little brother, if not exactly the right mix.

"Are you okay?" Charlie asked, nervous, maybe waiting for a sign that he should back the hell off.

Dean swallowed and nodded. "Yeah—yeah." _Just… don't let go. _ He felt his ears burn, horrified at the need, and restrained himself from the idiotic inclination to pull away.

Instead, he drew in air—cold air—let Charlie's grip ground him, looked up to catch the kid's wide gaze, and made a choice.

He needed help, and he knew it.

Biting his lip, he stretched his own hand out to clutch Charlie's sleeve.

The kid's eyebrows lifted, but he scrambled to help when he realized Dean was trying to stand. Jack pushed up—caught Dean's other side, steadying him when he tilted.

The grip—Jack's grip—balanced him, but didn't hold the current of energy Charlie's did. Dean tried not to think too much about that—about fear or infections or need. About these people Sam had been mixed up with now being mixed up with him.

He shifted awkwardly, testing his body's stability, swayed, and closed his fingers over Charlie's shoulder. Charlie didn't seem to mind, didn't seem to think it was that weird—and didn't throw him any of the looks Sam might have in the same situation. Small favors, but Dean would take what he could get.

"The ghost is doing this to you," Jack murmured, whisper low, somewhere between question and statement.

Dean's jaw line hardened, but he didn't answer.

"What do we do now?" Charlie asked. "He's not… Sam's not… he's okay, right?"

Dean flinched.

"She understands," Elly's voice slid over them. Dean blinked at her, then looked in the direction she was looking, eyes to the graveyard.

The rain was letting up but the fog wasn't. Dissipated—but not gone. It sat huddled in pockets, hovering under trees and hunched around gravestones.

Dean grimaced, considered those with him, and willed himself to _think._

* * *

"_Why, Sam?"_

Sam closed his eyes.

It wasn't John's voice this time.

It was Jessica's.

He pressed his hands back over his ears—_hard—_even though it wouldn't take the eardrum itch away, wouldn't stop the pain in his chest. And it was juvenile, but he made a small grunt and tried to start humming to block out what his hands couldn't. _This isn't real, this isn't real—this isn't real._

Which wasn't exactly true.

Just because it hadn't happened _this_ way… didn't mean it hadn't happened.

And just because Dad had never said this was Sam's fault—that all the messes of their lives were because of _him_—didn't mean Sam hadn't thought it to himself a hundred thousand times since Jess died.

Over his bed.

Like _Mom._

"_You should have protected me, Sam."_

The hands and the humming weren't enough.

He opened his eyes.

She was there, pinned, ashen—cut open on the ceiling.

"_You should have told me the truth."_

"I know."

Blue flame fanned out across the ceiling and Sam felt the rush of response in his body—horror like he'd felt _then_—fresh and familiar in his limbs.

_Not real not real not real_, he hummed, trying to get the words to his lips.

"_Oh, it's real, Sammy."_

Sam rocked, startled at the familiar voice, feeling a flash of hope and relief, and a weird spark of leftover anger running through his muscles before he could even process the words. "Dean?"

Dean hunkered next to him, forearm resting casually and loosely on a bent knee. _"Isn't this just how it happened?"_

"Dean?"

"_Couldn't you have saved her if you'd just told her the truth? If you'd just told her who you really are?" _Dean rocked to his feet, ash raining around him, face dispassionate, something in his stance that was… not _Dean_. Like the shapeshifter in St. Louis. _"Couldn't you have saved her if you'd never pretended you were normal in the first place? If you'd never been born?"_

Sam bit back the sob in his chest. "You're not Dean." He dropped his eyebrows, clenched his teeth, kept his eyes away from the _Jess_ on the ceiling, the _Dean_ in front of him, dug the heels of his shoes into the floor, and strained every muscle in his body to push himself away, slapping his hands back over his ears once he felt the wall, splinter rough, at his back.

Then Dean made a sound, rough and low, and Sam couldn't not look.

When he did, the Dean—the not-his-brother Dean—was peering calmly up into Jessica's burning gaze. _"I saved you from this, Sammy. I can't believe I saved you from this."_

Sam laughed, hoarse and high pitched. "_Dean_ would never say that. _Ever!_"—loud, not caring if the reverberation of it hurt his ears or not, trying to ignore his own tiny inner voice that whispered, _just like Dean would never let himself die without a fight? Just like he would never stand still and hopeless while Death came to claim him? _

The Dean smirked.

"This _isn't_ real!" Sam insisted, sliding his head back and forth in denial.

"_You tellin' me this didn't happen? That you couldn't have saved her?"_

And just like that, his thoughts tilted and scattered. "No," he said, sucked in and bit down on the corner of his lip. "Stop."

"_And then comes the really rich part. You thought you could just come back into my life—like you haven't screwed it up enough already."_

"Dean _wants_ me with him."

"_Ah, Sammy—even if that's true, you're Dean's stone. You're the weight around his freakin' neck and you always have been."_

"No!" —forceful, because it wasn't like that.

It _wasn't_ like that.

Dean was the one person who knew enough, the one person strong enough to be in this with him. Solid and _there_. The one who would never abandon him, never let him down. The person Sam could count on to stand with him when no one else would. The one person who would always always love him. _Don't take that away from me._

_But didn't he? _

_Wasn't he just so ready to die?_

The Dean's smirk widened, quick flash of teeth reflecting the glow from Jessica-on-fire. And it _was _a _Dean_ smirk, countered by eyes darkened with _sorrow_ that was Dean's too.

The _real_ Dean's.

He hunched back down in front of Sam, cocked his head to the side and said softly, _"Come on, kiddo, you and I both know… I'd be _normal_ if it weren't for you."_

* * *

Dean narrowed his eyes in Elly's direction.

His brain kicked into gear and he glanced toward the Impala with the cold-hard calm he forced when he felt anything but.

Elly could _hear_ them.

He'd left one EMF meter at the cabin, the other back at the Lodge. Either one would have helped, but he knew how to improvise. He didn't have an EVP device and it was a long shot, especially without Sam to help him do the sound-filtering-thing with the laptop, but—

"_Charlie,_" Jack's strong voice cut into his thoughts, still holding Dean's elbow but staring past him at his own brother, voice urgent. "Charlie, I need you to get out of here—take Elly back to the Lodge and do that salt thing at the door."

Dean felt his stomach flip, catching the undercurrents of emotion in Jack's words—emotions that were _oh so_ familiar.

Charlie shook his head and stepped back.

Dean breathed, kept his grip, and stepped with him.

Jack advanced, nodding his head as if the motion could counter Charlie's position. "_Do_ that salt thing, and then _stay_ there," he repeated.

Charlie's mouth narrowed to a stubborn line.

The exchange between brothers felt razor-sharp in the way it jabbed at Dean's memories. Familiar, keenly familiar—like a worn down favorite shirt.

Jack and Charlie didn't look as comfortable wearing it.

Dean steadied his breathing and reached out to brace his free hand on the roof of the car he was nearest—_his_ car—and fought back the dangerous surge of ten-year-old memories. He ran his free hand over the damp metal, felt the slick solidness of it, closed his eyes and wondered what would happen if he decided to let go of Charlie—wondered if he'd be able to keep himself together enough to get Sam back.

He couldn't exactly protest—if he were Jack, he'd be telling Charlie the same thing.

"No."

Dean opened his eyes, surprised, because it was Elly protesting—not Charlie.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Elly," Jack started, stepping in her direction.

She looked away, curling her shoulders against his approach.

Jack pursed his lips and turned back to Charlie, jaw set. "You don't belong here. I'll help Dean find his… find Sam, but I need you—"

"I belong here as much as you do."

"Charlie, I put thirteen stitches in your head today—you're not staying."

_Thirteen_, Dean thought. _Fantastic_.

"He's my friend, Jack."

"And you're my _brother!_"

Charlie blinked—startled at Jack's vehemence.

Jack turned, grip whitening around the shotgun in his hand, glancing between the sky and the ground, breathing deep. A moment later, his eyes swept up, settled on Charlie, on Elly, then finally on Dean.

Dean held the gaze, and tried to make his features neutral, though he knew they weren't. "I'd understand if you didn't," he said. Didn't stay, didn't help, just _didn't_. It cost him to say it, but Jack had things to protect, and Dean understood that.

Jack held the gaze in return.

Dean kept his mouth closed and forced himself not to look away.

"Okay," Jack exhaled, after an eternity. "Okay." He looked at his brother, his fiancée, then back. "What do you need us to do?"

Dean loosened his fingers from fist to steady grip on Charlie's shirt, leaned away from the Impala and tried not to let the intensity of relief show on his face.

* * *

tbc


	29. Chapter 29

This is a long one, folks. Plan accordingly and remember to read responsibly ;)

Warning: much liberty taken with the concept of EVP (but isn't that what fiction is all about?)

* * *

**Part 29**

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006_

_There is a fifth dimension. _

_It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. _

_There's the signpost up ahead._

_You are about to enter an area we call…_

_The Twilight Zone._

Charlie shook his head, and concentrated on moving his feet over the wet grass. He wished the little commentary sounding in his brain would just _shut up already._ He looked at Dean and bit back a nervous laugh.

_That's all this experience is missing_, he thought. Logically—if logic had _any_ part of his current reality—there really would be a signpost. A man with a black suit and an ominously smooth voice pointing to it, reminding him, calmly, that he was venturing into a zone where people didn't come back the same.

Or… _you know_… not at all.

Sam—the Sam he _thought_ he knew—might have laughed at him for thinking it. Hell, the Sam he knew would have _known_ he was thinking it without him having to say it.

Charlie shuddered, shoving the thoughts away. His hand cramped—stiff around the shotgun he'd been issued. He flexed his fingers, tried to change his grip, glanced over at Dean, at the square grey object in Dean's far hand, and wondered again what it was.

As he watched, Dean lifted the thing to his ear then lowered it—as he'd been doing every few steps of their trek across the graveyard.

The nice, creepy, shadowy, _dark_ graveyard.

Charlie swept his gaze into the shadows, found nothing overtly threatening, and tried to consciously relax his muscles. They kept tensing up without his say so, and it was giving him a headache. As if he hadn't already had one.

Dean, on the other hand, seemed… _eerily_ _calm_.

He probably wasn't. Not really. His fingers were locked inflexibly around Charlie's shoulder—like they had been since he'd let Charlie pull him off his knees in the parking lot—seeming to have chosen Charlie over Jack to keep him upright in the face of… whatever he was sick with. Heart… ghost sickness… thing.

It felt a little like having a lion on a leash.

Or the other way around.

A quiver lingered in Dean's grip—a tremble, wobble, and tilt—underlining the fact that Dean wasn't all that stable, and truly needed Charlie for balance or support or whatever. But the grip also felt strong and solid and was steady enough to calm the coil of panic in his gut. It felt oddly protective.

Charlie was grateful for it.

Relieved it was there.

Dean had been intensely casual about it, looping a heavy arm over Charlie's shoulders with a tight smile as he'd led them out of the parking lot. "You make a beautiful crutch, Charlie—almost missed your calling in life." It'd been forced, said with the air of distraction, and _flat,_ but Charlie had almost laughed anyway.

He'd started breathing again instead, not realizing he'd let himself stop.

Defensive attempts at humor was a language he spoke well, and he'd appreciated Dean's trying.

A few feet on Charlie's other side, Jack walked with Elly, watchful—gripping his own issued shotgun as they veered around headstones, moving west across the graveyard, toward the barely visible formations of rocks marking the river's edge.

Jack seemed calm also, as he often did, as he _always_ did, but there was something else in his face—something in his eyes that made Charlie want to hold his breath. The memory of Jack telling him to just _go_—to take Elly and head back to safety—was strong. It was _different_, looking at Jack now, seeing layers under the perpetual calm that he'd never expected to see.

It made Charlie think things he didn't have time to think about. Made him nearly want to listen—to let Jack send him away and take this one. It made him feel… protected, but it didn't change his decision to stay.

He glanced at Dean's dark profile, re-tightened slick fingers on his shotgun, and reminded himself he was there because Sam—regardless of all the rest of it—was his friend. And Charlie had never wanted to be the type of person who cowered in a hotel room.

Insane or not—them or him—he wasn't going to just… leave them to it. Even if this turned out to be the strangely vivid nightmare he hoped it was.

Static crackled from the thing in Dean's hand, as it'd been doing periodically since Dean had fished it out of the trunk of his car—a trunk full of more weapons and oddities than Charlie had ever seen in one place. It looked like a radio—one of the old hand-sized portables with the rotating handles that let you set them up like picture frames.

"Is that some kind of… ghost-detecting device?" he asked, voice low.

"It's a radio," Dean answered, short and—Charlie suspected—unintentionally rough.

"Oh." He swallowed.

Dean rolled his thumb across the dial, then glanced up and around the graveyard, face softening. "The hikers that came back—they were found in the same place they disappeared from," he explained, voice like his grip—strong, with a rumble of anxiety beneath it.

Elly and Jack looked over, Jack catching Elly's shoulder as if to remind himself she had not disappeared. "What's that mean?" Jack whispered.

Charlie wasn't sure why it was they were all talking so softly. As if the ghosts—_was he seriously in a graveyard looking for ghosts?_—wouldn't get them if they whispered.

"It means Sam's _here_. If we're lucky, the radio will help us find him."

"If he's here, then why isn't he _here_?" Charlie asked, rubbing the back of his wrist against his face, wincing when he hit the stitches.

Dean threw him a look and Charlie decided he wasn't sure he wanted the rest of the answer anyway.

They kept moving.

The rain had stopped, but it'd left a small breeze in its wake that tugged at his wet clothes—making him shiver.

Around them, pockets of fog shifted with the air, stretching and settling like cartoon ghosts with warped bodies and magically growing fingers. Charlie pictured Sam stuck behind one of them, reaching out to them without being seen, calling out to his brother without being heard.

_If he's here, then why isn't he here?_

He twisted his head around, trying to see further into the dark.

_There is a fifth dimension…_

He wasn't sure what he was hoping to see… or hoping to not see.

Sam? Ghosts? Mythic signposts?

…Rod Serling?

They were close to the river now. Charlie could hear it. His stomach dipped uneasily at the way the fog sat thicker there. Everything looked like it could be something else—the gnarled trees, the stone outcroppings jutting up from the bank, the swirls of mist and the way they seemed to pointedly wrest away when Elly's large flashlight swept over them.

_Between light and shadow…_

He was losing it. Had lost it. Was officially insane.

He made an ugly sound in his throat and breathed—would have laughed if he wasn't actually in the _pit of his fears_, and absolutely way beyond the _summit of his knowledge_.

The radio squawked—spoke. Charlie startled before he realized Dean had rolled the dial onto a radio station and turned up the volume.

"…_entral Wyoming College Spri…"_

Dean rolled the dial again—slowly—pausing periodically to listen through the static and fuzz between stations.

For what, Charlie wasn't sure.

"…_severe storm warnings through…"_

Jack stepped closer.

"…_terrupted music set with KTAK 93.9 Riverton Country Rad—"_

"…_with new music from Ke…"_

"…_thought… _you_ could… pre_tend…"

"There," Dean said, fingers digging into Charlie's shoulder, halting his next step. "Did you hear that?"

Charlie stopped, muscles tensed, body responding with cold and panic—like it had when he was little and he'd let his imagination get the best of him. Not being able to sleep at night because he'd kept telling himself creepy stories about the creaky gate outside his bedroom window at the Martha's Vineyard house. Creeping into the Weatherly's dark potato cellar, and staying there a full ten minutes even though he'd been shaking out of his mind, just because Geoffrey Henderson had dared him to.

"What the hell was that?" he whispered, glancing instinctively over at Jack.

Dean grunted but didn't answer. Jack moved in, shoulder brushing Charlie's. And despite Dean's white pallor and the wearily tight angles of Jack's face, Charlie felt oddly safe between them.

The radio hissed, crackling loud enough to hurt his ears, but through it he heard the voice—more distinct this time.

"…_leave_ _and_… _come_… _back_… _leave __and_…"

An itch ran tight across his scalp, like every strand was suddenly trying to stand on end. "Is that the… is that the _ghost?_" He was whispering.

"EVP," Dean mumbled, head sweeping left to right, scanning the space around them like he expected something to happen.

_EV-what?_

Suddenly, Elly jerked away from Jack. She twirled to face them, mouth moving, no sound coming out.

It took Charlie a moment to realize—her lips matched the words from the radio.

Exactly.

His heart began to pound.

"_Poor Sammy_," she mouthed in tandem with the radio, "_always wants to have his cake and eat it toooo_."

* * *

_Not Dean. Not real. Not Dean. _

"You're _not_ Dean!" Sam shouted jaggedly.

Another shift, blink, flicker, and the ghost finally became the woman—not _Dean. _

Not Dean.

The ghost. It was a ghost. And seeing it again for what it was felt like amnesty.

Sam breathed relief, chest stuttering.

She was staring.

He tried to make his face go blank—thunked his head against the rough wood behind him, and stared back.

"_You thought they were broken," _she spoke, wrapping arms around knees._ "You thought they were," _she paused, cocked her head to the side, staring at him like she was burrowing into his mind,_ "freaks."_

He felt her words, like he was saying them himself, but he forced his mouth open and denied sharply, "No!"

"_You thought you could pretend them away."_

"You don't _know_ me."

She stretched a finger toward him, tracing his jaw with the tip—grotesquely tender—like she hadn't heard him say a thing.

"_The mess was yours—but you've left everyone else to clean it up. Mommy and Jessica—Daddy and Dean."_

"I didn't _know_—" Sam worked his teeth, felt the sting of denial curl under his skull. Felt like he had standing in front of Bloody Mary's mirror, hearing truths that struck deep—truths taken out of context and shoved at him without the shades of grey reality afforded. "I didn't _know_."

"_Thought you could just leave and come back… leave and come back… leave and come back. Thought you could fix it all by going back. Daddy's mission."_

Sam shook his head, moved aching lethargic limbs, and struggled to push the words aside. He tried to inch himself away—slow, and uncoordinated. He scraped his knee roughly as he tried to crawl—felt his jeans snag and the tiny, warm, trickle of blood from his kneecap.

"_Poor Sammy," _the ghost kept talking, _"always wants to have his cake and eat it tooooo."_

He couldn't get anywhere. He felt her voice on all sides—like crawling from was crawling to—and he stopped, felt for the rough pocked wall and pushed his back against it. _Ghost casserole—latcher,_ he reminded himself, clinching the thought. _Infecting people. Infecting me. _

_This isn't real. _

_Think, Sammy! _His thoughts stuttered to a stop, heartbeat faster—sharper. A strange sensation settled in his chest that was… visceral… poignant in the way it stole the rest of his air because… he hadn't thought of _himself_ as _Sammy_ for a long, long time. "Dean," he whispered and could feel the ghost looking, latching, _laughing_.

"_Sammy…"_

At that moment, he wanted to _be_ Sammy. Not Sam.

Wanted to just be some indestructible boy's little brother. Have Dean come find him, and fix this.

"_Sammy…"_

He closed his eyes, ran the left part of his bottom lip between his teeth and tried to let the _want _for his brother go—hearing Dean's voice resound in the back of his mind, echoing the ghost. _Think, Sammy…_

_Find a way out…_

Dean always said Sam could do it. Think. Connect the dots.

_Find a way…_

Randomly, his mind jumped to Elly.

She'd been… they… the ghosts… they'd done something to her… like this… and…

If this was anything like Elly's experience, he thought, _no wonder_ she'd come out of it crazy. _No wonder_ she didn't remember.

What had she seen?

Jack? Her parents?

What truths or lies had she been told?

And really, none of that mattered. What mattered was she'd _survived_. Gotten out. She must've… she must've _done_ something. Something had let her come back when Addison Wright hadn't… and that guy… the other...

"_Sammy…"_

His throat worked, thoughts frayed and shaky. He let out a desperate grunt. His focus was slipping. He opened his eyes. The ghost kept staring. He stared back angrily and worked his lips apart. "Whatever happened to you," he whispered tightly, "has nothing to do with me."

Her eyes narrowed, the edges of her form going hazy but… her stare stayed solid, thoughts worming into him—itch on his eardrums increasing.

Two days. It had taken Elly and Trace two days to come back and… did that mean they'd simply outlasted this?

Sam's sense of time had gone out the window… but he knew—he _knew_—he'd never last that long.

* * *

Dean dropped the radio, yanked the shotgun from Charlie's hand, and, ignoring the look of panic that crossed Jack's face, aimed straight at Elly. "Move her," he barked.

Jack did, grabbing her around the waist, spinning her to the side just before Dean fired, scattering salt shot.

The space where Elly had stood distorted—wavering like rising heat from a desert mirage.

Dean's vision knotted—straining—like he was staring at a hidden picture, trying to get his eyes to see it. For a moment, he wasn't sure _what_ he was seeing—wasn't sure what, exactly, he'd expected when he'd fired. Impulse. Instinct. The best he could go off.

Then the haze in his vision rippled, dissipated, and he saw him—Sam. Saw _Sam_ huddled against a large boulder, legs sunk into the shallow water eddied back from the river. Divided from Dean by another protruding stone. Boxed in by the branches of a large twisted tree and a bramble of driftwood that must have caught between the stones during high water.

Charlie issued a disbelieving sound, shoulder rigid under Dean's hand.

Before Dean could blink, the vision started to fade, becoming indistinct—like he was seeing Sam in a dream. "_Sam_," he shouted, stumbling forward, making Charlie stagger. Rebalancing, Charlie caught his hand in the back of Dean's jacket, and moved with him.

Scrambling around the first boulder, Dean felt a strange itch snake up his arms.

Sam's shaky image sharpened—the boulder and driftwood behind him changing, appearing planked and old, like a wall. A sliver of moonlight broke through the dark clouds—painting a stripe down its side. Sam looked up, arms folded across his chest. He shook his head jerkily and said, "You're not him—_don't_."

Before Dean could reach him—react—the image faded from view. The memory stayed. Scorched on his mind. Like the burnt halo left on retinas after staring at something too bright.

"_Sam!_" he yelled again, blinking furiously, unconsciously loosening his grip on Charlie arm. The recoil from the loss was immediate, like a punch, deep in his chest. He fought the rush of nausea, groped blindly for Charlie's arm and almost dropped his shotgun.

He found Charlie's sleeve, curled his fingers back around it and felt Charlie's hand re-fist in the back of his jacket—dizziness receding just before Jack's voice called out, "Elly, _stop!_"

Dean looked.

Jack, wide eyed, held Elly around the waist as she struggled forward, looking eerily sane, saying words that sounded crazy. "You don't understand. She wants him to be like her. She wants him to _die_ like her… like the other one with you. She wants him to go in."

Dean didn't wait. He twisted his fingers tighter into Charlie's shirt, lifted his gun and, aiming to not hit directly where he thought he'd seen Sam, fired once more.

* * *

Blake ended up turning the car around. Pointing the van up the second turn-off Sara had seen.

It was an uphill road, paved but not maintained—uneven and pitted. The van lurched and rocked as it moved, headlights bouncing off the surface of the rushing river near the road—catching the curling mist hovering over the water.

Kim pursed her lips and leaned into the window. She was the first to see the arched sign that announced they were heading into a cemetery and it made her wonder if Sam and Charlie were really in as much trouble as Blake thought. It was starting to seem that way. She'd been annoyed that Dean had been monopolizing Sam's attention and time, and she'd felt weird about the way she'd seen them argue, but she hadn't really thought…

But Blake was convinced it was _something_—something bad. And each time Charlie didn't answer his phone, she saw Donna become a little more convinced.

Garrett seemed concerned, but mostly curious.

And Sara. Sara sat with her feet pulled onto the seat, her knees drawn to her chest, staring fixedly out the front window. She was chewing her lower lip and the zigzag vein that showed up when she was in study mode or worry mode had popped out on her forehead. Kim was about to ask her how she was feeling when the van crested a small hill and bounced into a parking lot.

Directly in front of them sat Jack's car.

Next to it, the car that Sam and his brother were driving.

"There," said Blake, angling the van and gesturing.

Kim peered out the window as Blake pushed down the brake. "I don't see Sam or Charlie."

"Why would they be at a cemetery this late at night?" asked Sara.

_Why would they be at a cemetery at all? _Kim thought.

"Sam said his brother was like a… private investigator consultant or something," Donna mumbled when no one answered. "Maybe he's… working on a… case… or something."

Blake snorted as he killed the engine and Kim had to kind of agree with his sentiment. After just getting out of a clinic, would Dean really be out here… working?

"Even if Sam's brother is a private _dick_," Blake spoke, leaning over to fish a flashlight out of the glove compartment, "I'm not sure that would explain what the hell they'd all be doing here."

"Why would Sam lie about that?" Donna challenged.

Blake got out and the others followed. No one answered Donna's question because no one had an answer, but, Kim thought, Sam _wouldn't_ lie about that. Sam wasn't like that. But maybe his brother was. Maybe his brother had gotten him into something shady. Maybe his brother was the one that was lying—to Sam and the rest of them.

Out of the car, Kim glanced around apprehensively. She still didn't see anything—didn't see anyone. She turned to Blake. "Where would—" A burst of sound cut over her question, made her flinch—echo of the blast reminding her of the boom of fireworks or… gunfire. The group spun in the sound's direction and before anyone could say anything, Blake took off, clicking on his flashlight and bolting forward.

"_Wait_," Kim tried—they had no idea what they were getting into—but Donna and Garrett, and even Sara, were already on Blake's heels. She had no choice but to follow or be left behind in the parking lot, alone.

* * *

Sam felt a shift, like the first jerk of a fast moving elevator, the world changing direction underneath him.

The ghost staring at him snarled, twisted, reached out as if to clutch him and… vanished. The itch in Sam's ears turned to a sharp buzz, then stopped altogether, leaving a dizzyingly empty sensation in its wake.

His vision blurred. Darkness and shadow. No flickering lamp, no ceiling on fire. A cold breeze and the sound of moving water.

For a strange second he felt… _safe_. Euphoric. Like… _Dean is here_.

But he knew better.

He wasn't safe.

Dean wasn't _here_.

And he shouldn't want Dean dragged into this anyway—shouldn't expect him to always show up… not when Dean wasn't okay… not when Dean could go and die on him… not when… not when Sam was trapped and alone and …_cursed. Cursed in a way that would get Dean killed._

"_Sam!"_ He heard his name, said sharply, said with authority, with _Dean's_ voice, and even though he knew it wasn't real, he looked, lifted his head and saw him, yards in front of him, lit not by an eerie lamp or catastrophic fire, but by what looked like moonlight. Expression fierce and strong and Sam wanted it to be him, wanted it to be real… but knew… he knew…

"You're not him," he said resolutely. "Don't!" _Please don't._

When he blinked, Dean was gone—the woman back in his view. Bringing with her the raw eardrums, small cabin walls, and cold flickering lamp, expression furious and desperate. She hunched low and close, making him feel claustrophobic, crushed—like he couldn't breathe. _"You hurt him," _she whispered, intense and fast. _"You can't go back. You can't fix it once you leave." _She looked over her shoulder, like she was waiting for something.

And he couldn't even get the _no_ past his lips, because… it was true.

The ghost twisted back to face him, but not _all _of her twisted back—the other ghosts stayed staring in the other direction, sliding apart from each other like unraveling string. The rough overlay of their voices tingling into his teeth.

"_She came back too late, too long after," _said one, in a voice old and low. _"She tried to leave… I had to keep the other where she couldn't flee… neeeever went back…"_

"_Knew she'd leave, knew they'd leave… should've known what they'd do…" _said the other female, almost on top of the first. Her head twisted to stare at Sam, melding partway with the eyes of the first. _"You're not the one… not him,"_ she hissed, head whipping around. _"He's here."_

_Dean,_ Sam thought. He felt a jolt of panic—like jumping off a diving board before realizing the swimming pool was empty.

Then _his_ ghost moved closer and started changing, morphing into Dean on his knees—pale face, hooded sweatshirt, sunken eyes. Horribly calm expression. _"You came back too late, Sammy,"_ he whispered, reaching a cold hand to Sam's chest, _"but you'll be okay."_

"No, Dean," he said, and thought, _I won't_, and _don't leave me—_thought of his dream and his dad saying, _don't lose him now, son._

Before he could reach out, Dean tilted backward into the other ghosts without listening, vanishing in a fog as the sound of a shotgun took over Sam's ears and a _different_ Dean swam into his vision.

* * *

Blake gripped his flashlight and ran faster.

He heard the others racing behind him but he didn't slow down—leaving it up to them to keep up or fall back. He didn't know what he was heading into, but he felt a weird sense of excitement, of _vindication_.

He was close.

Even as he thought it, he heard another blast, saw the brief millisecond flash from the muzzle of a gun and realized it really _was_ gunfire they'd heard.

It hadn't really clicked until then.

He slowed, cautioned, a small flutter of doubt beating in his chest.

The others stopped behind him.

He clenched his jaw and stepped forward, staying in the extra thick shadows of a large tree, clicking his flashlight off to prevent them from being seen by whoever fired the gun, and let his eyes adjust to the dark. "Stay back," he whispered, with confidence, with authority.

Donna stepped up to stand at his shoulder.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance.

She ignored him, gestured at a figure in the distance and said, "It's Dean." Blake saw him too. Standing a ways off, recognizable by the glint of moonlight reflecting off his hair. It looked like he was the one holding the shotgun.

Blake shook his head.

There was someone else there also, next to Dean, too shadowed to identify but too short to be Sam. Blake thought, _maybe Charlie_, just as the small beacon of moonlight shifted with the clouds, allowing him to recognize Jack and another someone else—an unfamiliar woman, several yards to Dean's left.

"Where's Sam?" asked Garrett—a question Blake was already turning over in his mind.

In the distance, Dean and Charlie started moving, scrambling fast.

Blake took that as his cue to move too, no longer caring what he might be getting into, wanting to just get to the bottom of it, stop whatever it was before it was too late to take control of the situation. He surged forward and… tripped. _What the hell?_

"_Blake_," said Donna sharply, like he'd done it on purpose.

He stumbled to his feet, flushed, feeling weird, feeling a rush of anger at whatever made him trip. He was usually agile, light on his feet.

A cold wind rushed up in front of him, seemed to blow _through_ him—so icy it shocked him stationary. He wouldn't have admitted it, even if asked, but it scared him, made him feel turned around and disoriented, made him feel like the fog swirling heavily around his feet was holding onto him, grabbing him.

"_Sam,_" he heard someone shout in the distance, like something was wrong.

Shaking off the strange sensation, Blake rocked on his feet and moved again. This time it was Sara who moved faster—suddenly at least a yard in front of him, standing just outside the heavier shadow of the tree.

"Sara, _wait_," Garrett hissed.

Sara curved her head back, and it was dark, so Blake had to be imagining it, but her eyes seemed to change color. She quirked her lips and said, "He's close enough now. I can finish it." Smiling like a lunatic.

Hearing the short gasps from Donna and Kim, Blake reached to grab her. Without looking, she shoved, pushing him into the trunk of the tree with strength he hadn't expected. He stood, dazed, catching his balance and his breath, feeling something like static jump through the hairs on his arms, smelling something like lightning swirling in the air.

* * *

Dean scrambled forward as fast as he could.

Charlie, aptly reading his intent, scrambled with him, reaching for the empty shotgun in Dean's hand before Dean even shoved it at him. The ghost would be back. They needed to reload. In the meantime—"Jack," Dean called, sloshing through the shallow water, going to his knees in front of Sam with Charlie right next to him—Jack's shotgun was still loaded.

"I can't _see_ anything," Jack called back, but Dean heard him move closer, heard him ready the gun.

"Sammy?" Dean let go of Charlie, feeling only a momentary flutter in his chest before his hands were on Sam, tilting his chin up to look into his eyes, checking for injury before locking his hands in the lapels of Sam's jacket, the connection scrubbing away the discomfort in his pulse.

"Dean?" Sam's voice shook—eyes drifting to Charlie then back again.

"It's me. It's me. Are you okay?"

Sam didn't answer. His big hands knotted into the sides of Dean's shirt. He tilted his head into Dean's chest and shuddered all over.

"Hey. Hey, I got you. I got you." Swallowing relief and worry and a quick spike of cold fury, he gripped Sam swift and tight, ran a hand over his head then down to his neck—gently but hurriedly prying him back, checking once more for any overt injury before glancing at Jack's tense and vigilant stance. "Sam? Sam, we gotta move. The ghost will be back."

"Ghosts," said Sam. "Casserole. Latchers." Like a litany. "Dean."

"Yeah… yeah, come on." Dean moved his hands and rebalanced his feet in the water to leverage Sam up.

"Is he okay?" Charlie's voice was shaking too, but he grabbed Dean's elbow with a steady hand when Dean almost went down from Sam swaying in his grip.

Fog swirled up from the water, circling thick around their feet, and Dean didn't even try to answer. "Jack," he shouted, and even though Jack didn't have something specific to aim at, he fired anyway, low and to the left.

Immediately, the fog thinned.

Dean wrapped an arm around Sam's back, leaned his hip to adjust to Sam's weight in a way he was way too used to, and breathed out, "_Go!_"

* * *

Charlie had the shotgun reloaded by the time Jack fired his last shot into the nothingness over their shoulders. They'd made it out of the twisted formation of rocks and tree roots that'd caused Charlie to feel disturbingly trapped, and Sam was looking steadier on his feet, moving more with his brother instead of hanging off him.

With only headstones and scattered trees to trip them up, they picked up speed. Charlie running fastest, checking over his shoulder to make sure the others were with him.

"Go!" Dean kept ordering, as if Charlie _needed_ the extra encouragement. He didn't. A spooky abnormal feeling was clinging to his skin, crawling across it in a way that seemed to negate the fact that he still hadn't seen any actual ghosts.

"_Charlie_, what's going on?"

"_Charlie!" _

"_Sam!"_

Charlie skidded to a stop. His friends' voices so starkly out of place it took several seconds to figure out they were real and actually there.

Behind him, Dean laced together a soft string of curses, and he couldn't be sure, but it sounded like Jack joined him.

"What are you guys _doing_ here?" Charlie asked sharply, not able to pull the panic from his tone.

Donna's expression altered and she stumbled back a step—stopped reaching for him. "We were _worried_. You didn't answer… we _followed_ you and… we heard _gunfire_," she explained in a clipped rush. The not quite complete sentences eerily reflective of Elly's.

_We,_ Charlie groaned inwardly, taking count. _Donna, Blake, Kim, Garrett…_

"He'll explain later," Dean ruled, gesturing back in the direction they'd all come. "Right now, we need to leave."

"Wait," said Donna and Blake in unison.

"Donna, _listen_ to him," Charlie cut in.

"We _don't_ know where Sara went," she pushed, eyes flashing.

"What's wrong with Sam?" Blake asked, pointing to where Sam still had his head turned into Dean's neck—Dean holding him up with an arm behind his back and a fist twisted in his jacket front.

"What do you mean you don't know where Sara went?" Dean asked, sounding absurdly calm, oddly in control as he readjusted his hold on Sam and flicked his gaze behind them.

Charlie looked back also—_hurry_ sitting darkly in his stomach and twitching muscles. The fog by the river was growing heavier, and he was pretty sure that wasn't a good sign.

"She just took off a minute ago. We couldn't see where she went," answered Kim.

"_Dean_," Sam said softly, and when Charlie looked he was sliding away, taking his own weight.

Dean rebalanced, let Sam move, but reached out to catch his sleeve.

"I'm okay. I'm okay," Charlie heard Sam tell him.

He didn't really look it—not completely. Neither one of them did.

Dean made a low rumbling sound and Charlie watched them trade looks, wholly silent dissertations passing between them. Suddenly he felt a pressing need to find his own brother—and was startled when he turned to discover him standing ridiculously close. Jack's mouth was a thin line, eyes vigilantly sweeping their surroundings. He paused when Charlie looked at him, blinked, and in what seemed an unconscious gesture, clamped his free hand on the back of Charlie's neck.

Half a beat later, Dean reached over to once again pull the shotgun from Charlie's fingers. Charlie let him, watching as he removed his other gun from the waist of his jeans and tossed it to Sam who double-checked the clip and snapped the gun together with an ease that shocked Charlie almost as much as it had the first time.

Made him want to keep staring.

Reminded him—Sam was not what he'd thought—not who he'd thought. Sam was… Sam was _this._

Whatever _this_ was.

Predictably keen to being watched, Sam looked over, eyes snagged with Charlie's, expression not exactly apologetic but something like it, self-conscious and briefly exposed.

"Sam?" It was breathy, came from Kim, and carried the awe and confusion Charlie'd been feeling all night. He looked, and saw the confusion of this new world order written in varying degrees on the faces of his other friends also. Mild, compared to what Charlie'd felt, because they didn't know the half of it and…

And out of the blue, in the midst of all else going on, he felt a surge of defensiveness for Sam and wasn't quite sure where it'd come from. He thought about what it must be like to try to keep secrets like this—thought of Sam's staunch hate for Halloween, thought of all those times it'd looked like Sam was going to say something but didn't. Pretending half of himself didn't exist. Lying to them, but…

"Sam?" Blake repeated, voice edgy.

Sam looked down, then out and around them. He didn't address Kim's confusion, or anyone else's. He shifted, then took—what looked like—a pointed step closer to his brother before staring up at them again. Even then, he didn't really look _at _any of them. He eyed the surrounding fog, dipped his head closer to Dean and muttered low, "Better stick with salt rounds,"—tucking the gun Dean had given him out of sight.

Charlie swallowed, thoughts rebounding into the present—thinking, using salt instead of the iron-whatever bullets when you didn't know what else you could be hitting in the fog was probably a smart idea.

Dean nodded and stepped forward. He grabbed Charlie's shoulder, caught his eye and said, "Get out of here, back to the Lodge." He looked at Elly and Jack and said louder, "Jack, get them gone."

"If Sara's picked up the ghost, she could be after you," Charlie heard Sam mumble.

Blake's eyes narrowed at Sam. "What did you say?"

Jack cut in. "He said we need to get out of here as fast as possible."

Blake squared his stance, like he was about to argue.

"_Now_," Dean barked when no one moved.

As if to punctuate his order, there was a rumble and roar from the direction of the river—wind racing, fog pouring in heavy from all directions.

Thunder crashed, followed by the loud snapping break of a tree branch.

Charlie spun toward the sound—saw a felled branch crash to the ground and an old man standing next to it. An old man with a gaping hideous grin and floating hair. It took Charlie a moment to comprehend what he was seeing. The man was speaking. He heard the voice, but it _felt_ off, seemed to surround them, seemed to echo loud and soft at the same time.

"_Saw her leave… saw her leave. Had to keep the other where she… couldn't… flee."_

Blake gasped and bent forward.

"_Had to make them understand…" _

Suddenly, the man was right in front of them, reaching for Blake's face with a gnarled, long-fingered, hand. _"You understand."_

Charlie reached for Donna and stumbled back into Jack when Jack yanked on him. Startled sounds skittering out from the others.

Then Dean moved, graceful and quick, head low and steps smooth. He grabbed the back of Blake's jacket, yanked him hard to his knees—and fired the shotgun over his head, straight into the old man's face.

This time Charlie _saw_ the man vanish, like smoke in the wind, and knew, no one, no _living_ human, could disappear like that.

A sharp silence descended, everyone frozen in place.

Shock… or whatever people felt when they saw a ghost for the first time. They were all there now—_between the pit of man's fears, and the summit of his knowledge. _Turns out, thought Charlie, Rod Serling had known exactly what he was talking about.

* * *

The fog thinned, bending away.

Dean relaxed his stance only slightly, breathed, felt wobbly and a little numb, but Sam was with him, and that was good. That was okay. Enough for Dean to feel the ground beneath him was actually solid. Enough to make the sharp pounds in his chest beat more with relief than pain.

Enough to let him _think _and make him less likely to kiss the dirt at any given second.

He pulled up on Blake's collar, forcing him to stagger to his feet.

Blake spun, whirling on Dean, mouth hanging open, eyebrows drawn together in a rigid line. "What the hell, man? You… what…"

Dean lifted his voice over the sputtering protests. "We need to leave here," he ordered again, as calmly as possible—_we're all fine here now, no reason to panic._ Yeah, right.

"Dean, _drop!_" Sam spat suddenly.

Dean did, wrenching his body hard to the left with a fist in Blake's shirtfront, slamming them both into the ground half a second before a chunk of someone's headstone whistled past where they'd been standing—the acrid scent of ozone in its wake.

"Everyone, get down," Sam commanded next.

Dean rolled to his knees, saw Jack crouching low—Charlie, Elly and the others ducking near him while he fumbled with his empty shotgun. By Dean's count, Jack was out of shells—didn't have anything to reload with.

Next to him, Blake rolled over, hands poised beneath himself, but he didn't try to stand like Dean thought he might.

"What's happening?" Kim asked.

"Dean!" came Sam's next warning.

Dean swung himself sideways as another chunk of headstone flew. He didn't quite make it out of the way this time. It struck hard—nailing the outside of his left bicep, turning his arm to pins and needles. _"Son of a bitch."_

"Dean?" Sam barked again.

"I'm good." He tried to flex his hand.

Skittering sounds of confusion and panic were emerging around him. He rolled back to his knees, fumbled one-handed with his shotgun, and looked up in time to see the blink-stutter-flash of _Prisal Earl Prisal Earl Prisal Earl_ walking toward them. "Sam, two o'clock."

Sam rocked in that direction, stance set wide, gun drawn on the ghost, eyes flicking out into the fog and dark. "Dean?"

"See Sara?" Dean asked, reading Sam's worry.

"No," Sam grunted, pained, like the ghost was getting to him.

_Shoot,_ Dean almost ordered. But hesitated. He didn't want a stray bullet in the fog to end up haunting either one of them.

Then the ghost flash-flickered flash-flickered—_Prisal Earl Prisal Earl—_right in front of the wide trunk of the large cottonwood. Right between Sam and the tree.

"_Now,"_ Dean commanded, and heard the harsh _bang bang bang_ of Sam emptying his clip before his order was fully out his mouth—heard the pure iron bullets penetrating, passing through the screeching, dissipating, ghost to _thunk thunk thunk _in the base of the tree. Fog reeling drastically back on all sides.

Dean got to his feet, sensation trickling slowly back into his arm.

He took in the wide-eyed shock on everyone's faces—the frozen stares at where the ghost had just been… the frozen stares at Sam—and traded a quick look with Jack. "Parking lot," he growled at them, picking up his shotgun and cocking it. "Now!" Hopefully he wouldn't have to say it again this time.

Jack nodded, leading out, swiftly, hand in Elly's, giving an ushering nod to the others to get them going, straight lining for the vehicles.

Blake stuttered where he stood.

"Charlie," Jack barked.

Charlie caught Donna's arm and started following, but looked back, stricken. "Sara—" he started.

"We'll get her," Dean promised. "Just go."

"Wait," interrupted Blake, eyes wide and glassy with confusion or anger or— "Just wait a—"

It was Sam's voice that stopped him, talking to _those who didn't know_ and getting them to listen like only Sam could. "Blake, we need to get everyone out of here as fast as we can." Quick calm backed with some sort of respectful understanding—like he was giving Blake the task. "We can't risk losing anyone else."

Blake's eyes spun from Dean, to Sam, the fog, and back again, seemingly considering his options. Finally, he swallowed, gave Sam some weird kind of decisive nod that bothered Dean for no reason he could pinpoint, and turned after the others.

"Dean," said Sam quickly, stepping to his shoulder the moment Blake's back was to them. Sam pointed and Dean looked. In the shadows of a tree a dozen yards to their right, stood Sara.

Dean's breathing picked up speed immediately, almost… _against_ his will, something else forcing his air in and out, tightening and loosening his chest for him. Like it was all coming back—the memory, loss of control, itch, hitch, and rip through his head.

He lifted a trembling arm, aimed the shotgun, but…

He couldn't exactly _shoot _Sara. Even with salt.

"_They'll leave_," she whispered. It was piercing. Made him ache. He bit his teeth together. The weirdly bitter smile on Sara's too-nice face was brightly visible, even from the shadows where she stood. "_They already did_."

Dean dropped the shotgun and stumbled, heart fluttering, head thrumming.

"_Dean!"_ Sam reached out, catching Dean firmly.

"_Ahhh!_" All at once the pain doubled, whirly haze and raw skin, sensations of pins under fingernails—unfamiliar pain, Sam's pain, mingled with his own—and Dean couldn't stop the moan.

Sam made a startled sound, letting go of him—fast.

Dean went to his knees and vomited, hard, burn raw in his throat.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was a shaky hitch.

Dean tightened his stomach muscles, fought against the sour bite in the back of his mouth, and looked up at Sam's horrified expression. He fought to talk, to say something, to tell Sam it wasn't him, because everything Sam had ever needlessly and ridiculously taken blame for was sitting clear as day on his face.

_"Told you… told you… all you do is hurt."_

Dean grit his teeth against the echoing words. Even though this voice wasn't directed at him, he felt a flare of anger in the middle of the pain, because he was starting to get it—Sam's fear—and hated the way this _bitch_ was exploiting it. As if Sam needed another boost to his guilt complex.

"_He won't wake up now. Not this time… too cracked, too broken. He'll leave you alone_. _He should leave you alone_."

_The hell I will. _Dean swore, but couldn't get the words past his lips. He curled forward with a grunt, tiny black dots building in his vision.

Sam made a small anguished sound—grief, and everything else Dean hated to hear from his brother, coming out in it. "Dean?" Sam hovered, worn and anxious. Not touching.

Dean tried again to speak, struggling against the promise of unconsciousness. He tilted his head to the side… just in time to see Sam yanked fully off his feet. Just in time to see him hit the ground, hard. Then, Dean didn't have time to say anything because Sam was being dragged away from him.

He scrambled after… fighting vertigo and the rage of pain in his gut.

They were coursed straight for the river.

In the mix of fog, he saw a flash of sleeve and dove—caught Sam's arm and something else. Grappled for purchase and accidentally yanked Sam's hair. Finally he gripped Sam's wrists—tight hands around wet muddy skin and the heavy, soaked material of Sam's shirt cuffs.

The pain intensified. He gasped and moaned but he was prepared for it this time, and knowing what to expect let him hang on when he might have otherwise let go. After another moment it calmed some, like the pain Dean had been carrying had traded itself entirely for something new.

Pain not his.

Sam's touch taking away his own—leaving Sam's lancing through him like lightning.

The moving fog swirled to a stop, spacing out around them in a small bubble. Dean could hear the rush of nearby water but everything else seemed to stop moving. Cold, motionless, and waiting.

"Dean," Sam groaned, voice thick with fear and guilt, limp in his grip.

Sara walked quiet and slow out of the fog behind them.

Dean groaned.

She hovered at the edge of their bubble, head dipping. "_They'll all leave you. You're not worth it to stay," _she whispered, extra loud, like kids in church. He felt the pressure rebuild in his chest. His heart. His lungs.

In front of him, the fog churned and parted. The river opened to their view. Then Dean heard the other voice, saw the other Prisal hovering transparently over the water. Sam's head turned. _"You killed them,"_ she whispered. _"All you'll ever do is hurt."_

"Dean," Sam grunted. Grip slackening, holding Dean's sleeve with minimal effort. Dean clamped down—feeling the physical pull on Sam from the other direction.

"_Death and ash and pain… all of it you."_

Sara swayed closer, staring out—the other Prisal staring back. Facing each other, confronting each other with their fears in a way they hadn't since their deaths. Maybe not ever.

_"You came back too late."_

_"I had to leave."_

_"You should be alone!"_

_This is what it's always been about,_ Dean thought. Where this mess started. These two. Sisters or cousins, it didn't matter.

Earl was there, mixed in somewhere. The catalyst and the façade—over, under, and between. But whether he'd been a saint or an evil _son of a bitch_, he wasn't the heart of this.

Ten years ago Dad had stopped the first ghost, reversed what she'd been forcing on Dean. And she'd been done—dormant until Earl's death pulled her out again, reaching for Dean but not strong enough to take him all the way back down. And, Dean thought, even back then, with Sam and Dad, the infection hadn't been absolute—Sam and Dad's simple touches grounding him, powerful enough to counter what the ghost had been trying to force on him.

And this time?

Dean tried to think.

The infection wasn't as strong in him this time because the ghost wasn't as strong, but, it was more than that. It was—in spite of everything, every fear and doubt—it was belief in Sam. Belief that Sam, though having traded sizes from twelve-year-old to twenty-two-year-old—though having left and come back—was still the kid who would watch a _Godzilla_ movie instead of _Family Ties_ to appease his supposedly unconscious brother. Was the kid that, despite standing in the crowd of his Stanford friends—being so damn close to normal and boring and all the other things he'd always wanted—had stayed at his brother's shoulder instead, asking him to _stay close_, and to understand.

They weren't like the Prisals at all. Neither one of them. It was time the Prisals knew that.

Electricity ran thickly through the air. Whispered voices growing louder, meshed and undecipherable. Running into and over each other. Building.

Dean focused on blocking them out, on concentrating, and thought, it was funny what fear could do when it got away from you. Funny how suddenly, to Dean, the opposite of fear was faith—believing not that the fear was irrational, but that the opposite truth was greater. Sam's arm against his ankle. Dad's hand on his head.

In the end, Dean believed Sam loved him more than he hated him, that Sam wanted Dean to not be alone at least as much as he wanted to live his own life. And the thing about fear and faith—to give one power, the other had to give ground.

There was a shift. A moan. Sam started slipping from his grip.

Dean groaned, locking his teeth. "No, don't you let go of me," he ordered.

Sam twisted.

"Sam! Hold onto me."

"I'm hurting you!"

"Only if you let go."

_Come on, Sam_. It wasn't all ash… _it's not all blood and death and destruction_…

He'd seen it before, Sam getting a thought in his head and not being able to let it go, tunnel vision allowing only possibilities of gloom and doom. If he was cursed, he was cursed all the way, if he…

"Don't lose him now," Sam muttered, so low Dean barely caught it.

_What?_

"_Dad_—" Sam whispered next, voice cracked and hurt. It pushed all the air from Dean's lungs.

"Sammy, stay with me."

"I'm sorry, Dean."

_No!_ Dean thought.

Then, Sam reached back, with intent, with purpose, squeezed his eyes shut with an apologetic moan, wrapped hands in Dean's jacket, and closed the loop, holding on with force.

Dean breathed, redoubling his grip as everything intensified and what felt like a cyclone began to spin around them. "Don't let go."

"You either," Sam choked back. "You either."

* * *

_Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996_

Dean made his way carefully from the bathroom to the kitchenette, holding onto walls and solid objects to keep his balance as he went.

The room was empty, but Dad and Sammy weren't far—outside, doing research in the shade or tinkering with the truck—all under the guise of not disturbing Dean's rest. Frustrating, because he slept better when they were close.

He opened a cupboard and fumbled clumsily for a cup, trying too hard to hurry, feeling blood rush sluggishly through his ears, wishing he didn't feel so on the verge of passing out every time he moved or made it to his feet. He _was_ getting better, he thought, just… not fast enough.

Gripping the counter with one hand, he tried to breathe steadily while his other hand struggled to fill the cup with water, willing himself to be steadier, move faster. He wanted to be back on the bed before anyone came back in.

Dad had been… weirdly intense about his recovery from this… whatever it was.

And Sam…

Intense didn't quite describe it—paying abnormal and constant attention to Dean's breathing, and blinking… and _shifting_. Asking incessantly if Dean felt okay, if he felt dizzy, if he needed soup or crackers or _Dad_.

Dean had tried to be convincing in his responses but Sam was still acting twitchy and disbelieving and, thus far, had been more afraid of Dean not waking up than Dean was. He'd tucked himself closer than usual to Dean the night before, poking Dean awake twice for the apparent hell of it, waking him three other times with nightmares before Dad had finally separated them because _Dean needs sleep_—forcing a teary Sammy to the other bed, trying to sooth him and get both sons to sleep with a gruff hand rubbing smooth circles on Sam's back.

It hadn't helped any of them and by early morning they'd ended up in the same bed again. Dad sitting against the headboard with a book in his lap, Sammy finally sleeping—tucked between Dean and Dad's leg—looking like the six-year-old he'd been acting like.

Dean had slept then too, but woken early—rolled onto his back carefully and watched his father through thinly slit eyes. Through the grey dawn shadows, he thought he'd seen the weary trace of a smile cross his Dad's face as he'd ghosted his hand over Sammy's hair—fondness and longing laced over the exasperation and worry.

"Dean?"

_Damn. _He hadn't heard Sam open the door and he cursed himself, feeling betrayed by his reflexes. "Yeah?" His voice was rough, a little indistinct, and he hated that more. His fingers tightened on the lip of the counter.

"You alright?"

"'m okay," he lied.

Sam blinked, and clearly didn't believe him. He turned. "Dad."

Dean rocked his head, focused past Sam, and saw their father standing in the doorway watching Dean with a blank expression. "How d'you feel?"

"Better," Dean tried—tried to make his voice strong and the word distinct but didn't quite make it.

John closed the door and walked closer. Took the cup from Dean, shut off the water, and settled a strong hand on Dean's back.

Dean realized he was shaking, and knew his father could feel it too.

"Bed," John ordered, with an undercurrent of anxiety, or anger—Dean couldn't tell which. He let himself be ushered over and down.

John checked him briefly—pulse, breathing—and looked a long time into his eyes. Sam watched cross-legged from the other bed. "You're not ready to be up without help," John said finally—a clipped rumble. Anger then, Dean concluded. Maybe not entirely aimed at him, though he couldn't figure out who else his father had to be angry with.

"Yessir," he mumbled.

"Want you to get more food in you—you've slept most of the day."

"Dad, not soup," Sam piped up, and Dean had to agree even if he still wasn't sure his stomach was up to more.

John opened the few small cupboards, looked back at his boys and sighed. "Not soup, huh?"

Sam turned his face into that unique _convincing_ expression he'd been born with and John sighed again. "Alright, I'm going to go pick something up. Sam?" He didn't have to finish the sentence. Sam hopped off the bed, grabbed the canister of salt and leaned the twenty-two against the nightstand.

"Dean," John said next. "Stay down. You'll be taking it slow the next while and I don't want arguments, you got it?"

"Yeah."

"_Dean_."

"Yes _sir_."

John gave them one last admonishing look before he slipped out the door, twisting the deadbolt in place.

Sam double checked the lock then moved to the kitchen to grab Dean's cup of water and bring it back to him—keeping his palm under it while Dean glared over the rim and swallowed. After settling the cup back on the table, Sam grabbed the remote, climbed up on the bed and slumped against the headboard—letting their shoulders touch. "You okay?" he asked.

"I'm good," Dean assured.

Sam was watching him, eyes piercing in a way Dean didn't like—like Dad's.

"Turn on the TV or something?" he deflected.

Sam flicked his eyes away, hit the power button on the remote—head tipping closer to Dean's as he traveled the channels. "This one?" Sam asked, landing on a monster truck rally—overly accommodating, and Dean just wanted him to stop.

"Nah, keep looking."

Sam punched the button a few more times.

"That one," Dean said. "Go back one."

"Really?"

"Don't be a smartass, Sam."

"I read the book."

"I know, genius. I was in the car with you. And so did I." He reached a clumsy hand up, giving a light shove to the side of his Sam's head.

Sam righted himself, bumping his shoulder against Dean's—almost elbowing Dean in the eye as he smoothed his hair down.

Dean waited, and after staring at the TV a long moment Sam dropped the remote, dragged one knee up and started messing with the hole in the toe of one sock. "Did you like it? The book?"

"Yeah," Dean mumbled.

He'd loved it. And hated it. All of it. How easily he'd found himself in it. And Sam. And Dad. Felt his eyes burn and prickle at the embarrassingly, stupidly horrifying desire for Sammy to _stay gold and all that crap _and wished…

Sam eyed him dubiously.

"Did you?" Dean returned, feeling a touch of heat in his face.

"Kind of."

Dean waited.

"It's just… none of them ever got what they wanted."

Dean paused before answering, because he knew Sam was thinking, _like us… like us._

He focused on the TV screen, watching Ponyboy hang out with Johnny in an old church—reading, eating baloney, and wishing for his brothers.

"Didn't matter, Sam," he said softly, even though it wasn't entirely true. It always mattered a little. "They had what they needed." Because he knew, in reality, there was a difference between _want_ and _need._

Want, as important as was, was not need.

Want could be lived without and sometimes even, eventually, forgotten.

Sam frowned, staring at the TV screen for a long moment. Finally, he blinked and turned to meet Dean's eyes—quick and grateful—the frown shifting to a small smile. A second later, he slid down on the pillows and leaned his head fully against Dean's shoulder. Like he hadn't done since he was ten.

Solid and there.

Dean swallowed, throat tight.

_Need_, he knew, was different because need could leave you empty and hollow and good-as-dead.

Right then, he was none of those things.

* * *

tbc


	30. Chapter 30

There is one more chapter after this. It is complete. It is with the beta. It will be posted within the next few days. Barring major site issues, you'll see the "complete" label on this fic before the end of the week.

Now, personal story-disclaimer-note about pacing: Remember when you went and saw the movie _Speed_, and you got to the end where everyone got off the bus and you thought, _okay, that was fun_, and then you thought, _wait, why is the movie still going?_

Yeah, well…

Just a reminder that this is set way back in season one.

And here we go.

* * *

**Part 30**

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006_

Charlie ran—clasping Donna's hand tightly, gasping in air that burned his lungs. Legs working and trembling as they skidded from graveyard grass to parking lot asphalt. He didn't let them stop until he and Donna were slapping their hands against the hood of the van.

When he looked back to where Sam and his brother had been, there was only fog—filling all the spaces in between.

He traded a worried look with Jack.

"I'm sure they're fine," said Jack—his doctor voice, smooth calm baritone carrying without effort. Charlie knew better than to take the voice at face value—he saw the white-tight fingers twined with Elly's and the small jerk of Jack's chin when he looked away.

Charlie held his breath and quietly counted heads—fear in his gut and goose bumps itch-inching over his body. "Where's Blake?"

"He was right behind us," answered Donna, bending forward, out of breath.

"There!" shouted Kim, pointing.

Charlie looked, saw Blake break from the fog onto the asphalt—watched him pause and look over his shoulder.

_Keep coming!_ Thought Charlie. _Don't stop. _

"Blake!"

_I have a bad feeling about this…_

Even as he watched, the wisps of fog in the space next to Blake began to twirl and morph unnaturally. "Blake, RUN!" he shouted.

Blake spun, but the morphing fog was already formed—the old man ghost Dean had shot, standing there looking as flesh and blood real as any _live_ human Charlie had ever seen. Not that he'd really seen any dead ones. So… comparison issue, but—

Kim screamed.

Donna and Garrett both sort of actually _squealed_. He'd never heard Donna squeal before.

Blake gasped. His profile stiffened as the ghost smiled and stepped closer, grinning at Blake eerily like… like he was _pleased_.

"_No one's ever understood before!"_ the ghost hummed, wispy white hair floating upward—blurring into the air like watercolor. _"I did what I had to do. But my whole life. My whole looong life. All alone because they made me… crazy." _

Blake stood… transfixed.

Charlie felt something creep into his chest—felt something creep _out_ of his chest. Felt frozen as he watched Blake scowl and rock back on his heels.

"_We're alike, you and I."_

The words wove around them, like a spider web. They felt _dark_. Evil.

Blake stayed still. "No one's like me," he said, edgy calm, like he didn't realize he was talking to an actual freakin' ghost.

"Jack, shoot it," Charlie hissed.

"Gun's empty!" Jack whispered back. Charlie couldn't take his eyes off the ghost but he could hear his brother messing with the gun, patting at his pockets. "Does anyone have any salt?" Jack whispered louder.

_Not likely_, Charlie thought. _And why again are we whispering? _He took a step but Jack stopped him, clamping down on his shoulder roughly.

"Blake, get out of there!" Jack shouted.

Blake didn't move.

Charlie did—tried shifting forward, but Jack's hold was firm. And he got that. Understood Jack not letting him—it's not like he had a plan or anything, but they had to do _something_. He didn't know how these ghosts worked, what or how they did what they did but… there was a tiny twist in Blake's expression, a shadowy glower that made Charlie's breath catch, made him wonder, for a moment, which being in front of him he should be worried about.

The ghost moaned, gaping his mouth at Charlie with a wretched grin before reaching a long grizzled hand toward Blake's face. _"You're lu-lu-losing,"_ he stuttered at Blake. _"Can't lose. Have to make sure… keep them from seeing… keep them from fleeing…"_

Charlie tensed, ready to break Jack's grip and dart forward—weapon or not—when abruptly, the fingers stretching toward Blake halted.

"_No!"_ The ghost shuddered, juddering briefly like it was having a seizure. It twirled back toward the fog with wide, horrified eyes.

A sound rumbled in the distance.

"_No!" _the ghost repeated, trembling, sounding dismayed._ "What? What are they doing?"_

Charlie swallowed, hard.

The distant sound intensified. Voices floating up on the wind—screeching. Wailing. Arguing. Building. Like pressure on his eardrums. Pressure on his chest. Charlie filled his lungs as much as he could—fighting it.

Jack's fingers dug into his shoulder and Charlie felt Donna fumble for his hand. He caught her forearm, gripping it tight.

Everyone was silent.

"_No no no!"_ the ghost shouted, white hair floating and flopping as he gave a jump—like a kid having a tantrum, and it might have been funny if it weren't so absolutely terrifying. _"They can't… not without me! Can't lose!" _he raged_. "Can't talk. Can't flee. Can't leave! Shouldn't see!"_

The wail and rush of voices continued, building over them until Charlie couldn't hear the old man's raging— could only see lips moving.

The sound that followed was deafening.

Like a sonic boom.

"Get down," Jack ordered.

Charlie dropped low and everyone else did the same. Even Blake ducked, covering his head as fog shot toward them, rushing toward them in a wave—like it would take them all out or pull them all in.

Abruptly, the old ghost stopped moving—frozen lifeless, like a statue. Charlie peeked through his arms in time to see him turn to grey and start to crumple—like ash in the wind. He held his breath when the wave struck, blowing the ash completely apart.

Blake disappeared in its haze.

Charlie folded his arms back over his face when it hit the rest of them, and felt… nothing. A tug of violent wind at his clothes for a _did I imagine that_ second. And that was all. The pressure sapped away from his lungs. He was blinded by soft grey-white when he opened his eyes and he coughed into the air experimentally. There was nothing there, no heaviness, no more tingling onhis skin. Cautiously, he stood, caught Donna's hand and pulled her up with him. "Are you okay?" he breathed.

"Yeah… yes." She waved a hand in front of her face, moving the fog, twirling it as it began to thin by threads.

"Jack?"

"I'm okay, Charlie—you?"

"Yeah. Everyone else?"

There were nods and sounds of relief from Garrett and Kim. A hesitant _yes _from Elly.

"What just happened?" wondered Garrett, voice shaky.

"No clue," Donna murmured.

"Blake," Charlie remembered, whipping his gaze toward the end of the asphalt, seeing Blake hunkered down, eyes wide.

Charlie broke forward, Garrett on his heels. They reached Blake at the same time, each gripping an arm to pull him up. He shook them off, jerking his arms away. Looking angry. Charlie held up his hands, waiting. He understood the response. At least, he thought he did. He didn't do it himself, but knew a lot of people turned fear to anger because it felt easier to deal with. Blake was one of those.

"Dude, chill," calmed Garrett.

"Relax. It's okay, it's… he's gone," Charlie soothed.

"I know. I'm fine. No big deal." Blake crabbed back a foot, then got to his feet on his own.

Charlie watched him, the agitation in his stance—he looked as out of sorts and as out of his element as Charlie had ever seen him. Almost… out of control. It was a strange thing—Charlie didn't think he'd ever not seen Blake in his element. Although, wacky ghost confrontation—that should do it for anyone. Except Sam and Dean—apparently.

"He okay?" Jack jogged over to them, the girls walking slowly in his wake.

"Looks like." Charlie hesitated, watching Blake's flustered face, then stuck with his answer. He was as okay as any of them were. Trailing his eyes around the parking lot and the graveyard, Charlie noted the fog was almost completely vanished. It looked peaceful, so _different_—almost like everything before had been a dream. He fingered his stitches and entertained the idea that he could still be dreaming, one last time.

His pulse throbbed in the cut, warm against his fingers and he gave in to reality.

"What about… the others?" asked Elly, halting but lucid.

Charlie breathed in, short and quick, remembering Sam and Dean and Sara. He looked back to where he'd last seen them. The graveyard was clear. He could see nearly all the way to the river, but—

"Oh no," Charlie murmured, relief whirling back into worry.

* * *

Sam blinked.

He was on his back, staring up at an abnormally bright starry sky—remaining clouds drifting through his vision in slow benign patterns.

_Starry Night,_ he thought, blinking again. Slow. Groggy.

He felt… _turned off._ A live wire abruptly killed.

He felt like he'd just finished a triathlon—muscles trembling with the shock of not moving, unsure whether the cessation of movement required total collapse or if some middle ground could be reached.

There'd been …a burst of sound. Intense, like lighting—like thunder—right on top of them. Words—dissonance of voice to voice crashing together—charged, looping, tripping over each other in a conundrum of need and speed. Screaming. Insistent.

Then nothing.

Silence.

The feeling of just… _absence_ overtaking him—like after Bloody Mary had destroyed herself by seeing her own sins in the mirror, or a little of how he'd felt after the woman in white had been taken by her kids after finally _going home_.

He took a deep breath—crisp air tinged with subtle warmth—and reached a clumsy hand to knuckle his eye, tried to get his thoughts in alignment. Tried to process the _where_ _when why_ and _what the hell_ just happened.

It was the void of voices, the lack of pain and terror, he noticed most. The calm, and…

_Dean. _

He snapped his head to the right—hitched his chest—then breathed. A long, slow exhale. Dean.

Dean was also on his back, head parallel to Sam's but upside down to his view—feet stretched in the opposite direction. Mud, or blood, trickled slowly down from the scrape on his temple. But his eyes were _open_. He was breathing, deep and solid, and Sam realized he could feel the steady expansions of Dean's chest as well as see them—shifting against the hand he had tangled in Dean's shirt and pressed against Dean's ribs. Strong. Comforting.

The remainder of his arm was stretched along Dean's side, stuck halfway under his shoulder—no gaps between them and no tug or pull or _force_ trying to create one.

_Is it over now? Is it done?_

"You okay?" he asked, hearing the cough in his own voice, clenched fingers twitching tighter in his brother's shirt.

Dean's eyes slid over, wrecked and relieved and content.

Dean's eyes had always breathed his secrets. Emerging sometimes cryptic and confusing but _there _in vivid color of his eyes—the reason Dean tried to turn his back to so many arguments.

"Yeah," Dean answered simply, meeting Sam's gaze, lips closing around an out-of-breath smile, eyes appraising. "I'm good."

Sam nodded, swallowed, _stared_—kept staring, even after Dean's eyes went back to the sky. His brother was muddy, scraped, grey and worn, but, for the first time since the rawhead, Sam thought he might actually believe him.

"You?" Dean rasped back. The question was predictable and expected, but free of anxiety—peaceful—like Dean was already sure of what the answer would be.

"Yeah," Sam answered low, unprepared for the burning tickle in his eyes. "Yeah." He bent a knee up and let gravity tilt it to the right, twisting his body slightly with it—a better angle with which to stare. To feel and see that _this_ Dean was real, and Sam hadn't lost him.

"It's like that… Van Gogh painting," Dean mumbled, eyes still skyward.

The rush of affection was abrupt and absolute. _Home_ and _safe_, and this is _my brother_. Sam reached, scrubbed his free hand down over Dean's scalp, gripping the fine hairs tight between his fingers.

Dean didn't balk—simply untangled his hand smoothly from its wrap in Sam's shirtfront and used it to softly thump his chest, reassuring and calm. Hand settling flat and strong on Sam's sternum.

_No gaps… no tugs or pulls or force…_

Sam sniffed, gave Dean's head a lingering shake, then let go, but kept his other hand twisted in the shirt—a lingering lifeline—and breathed in emotions he couldn't seem to control as he stared at the stars again.

Silence.

Feel of cool wet grass and relief and a million things he couldn't articulate, even if he tried.

He lay for a long time, looking, listening—hearing nothing but his own breathing. Their breathing. His and Dean's. One starting where the other ended. The loop between them flawless.

He was pretty sure that was what'd done it—the Winchesters forcing the Prisals to face each other, loop together. The way the Prisals had been divided, frustrated by the way the Winchesters fit. No more whisper clutch of fear or taunt or…

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"You… complete me."

Sam huffed, half cry, half laughter. "Dude, shut up."

* * *

Sara sat in the space of the open van door, staring at the ground, Garrett's jacket snugged over her shoulders. Garrett sat next to her with a careful hand on her back. Donna leaned against the side door, arms folded across her chest. And Blake paced near the rear bumper with Kim standing by.

Sara had been unconscious when they found her, not too far from where Sam and Dean had been laying. She'd woken easy but confused, not remembering anything from the time the ghost had been inside her.

Jack had checked her over—said she seemed okay, but his eyes had darted to Elly when he'd said it.

Sam had understood the look—_okay_ was relative.

And when Sara had kept asking what happened—when she'd whispered that she felt like she was going crazy—no one had been sure what to tell her. Least of all Sam—thoughts too scattered and raw to be helpful.

Dean though had hunkered down in front of her, eyes confident, voice sympathetic. "You're not crazy," he'd said.

Elly had moved then too—knelt next to him—smiled a small smile at Sara that somehow hadn't come across as patronizing. "Something happened, and it made a lot of us feel like we were crazy," she'd said. "But it's gone, now. It's over. You're okay, and you're not crazy. It's gone."

_It._

Sara hadn't picked up on _it_—but she seemed to realize, at that point, that maybe she didn't _want_ to know—and after, had stopped asking any questions at all.

Sam hadn't liked that either—the way she'd shut down starting to gnaw at his gut. He'd never been comfortable with abject silence—from anyone. Silence in his family usually meant something was wrong. The phrase _you're quiet_, having long since become synonymous with _what's the matter?_

"She's okay, Sam," Dean spoke, breaking Sam's reverie.

Sam pressed clumsy fingers into his gritty eyes. "No, she's not."

"Okay, not completely, but she will be. She seems like a pretty strong person. She'll deal with this."

Sam conceded—for the moment—because there was only so much his worn mind could tackle at once. _And Dean is here. Dean is okay._

He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned forward against the side of the Impala, curling his shoulders down until his forehead rested against the top. Exhausted, wired, _could sleep for a year_, and he wanted so badly to give into it.

"You really think it's over?" he asked. It seemed over. It felt over. Things put back where they should be. Memories righted. Graves filled in.

Infections reversed.

He heard Dean's hand settle on the other side of the Impala's roof and tap lightly—could picture his stance without having to look up.

"Yeah," Dean said after a moment. "I do."

Sam hummed in response. He opened his eyes but didn't lift his head, watching morphing drops of water glimmer and shift under his nose.

"Gotta say, though—wish we could salt and burn that last chick, just in case."

Sam grunted agreement. He didn't want any chance of this coming back to bite them or anyone else another ten years from now—wished there was a way to make sure it wouldn't.

Dean squeaked his hand across the roof, brushing leftover raindrops in Sam's direction, and still Sam couldn't be bothered to lift his head.

"Maybe we can," Dean said next.

And that did it.

Sam rolled his head, lifted it, brought an arm up to fold under it—propping his chin so he could see Dean on the other side and try to grasp what he was thinking.

It didn't help.

It didn't help, because once he looked, he started staring. Thoughts rumpled—like clothes stretched too far and then let go—struggling to remember their original shapes. The night sky was bright enough to show the color of Dean's eyes, the scrape on his forehead, the blood crusted on his lip. He looked as raggedly worn—as beat and raw—as Sam felt, but good too.

Real.

Real and okay.

Not leaving. Not dying.

Not anymore.

_Don't lose him now, son._

The corner of Sam's lip twitched upward, fleeting and quick, as close to a real smile as he'd come in a long time. _Wrecked and relieved and content…_

Dean stared back—lifting an eyebrow.

Sam blinked, slow and deliberate. "How?" he asked finally, voice croaking, bringing his other arm to stretch across the roof, tapping his middle finger. "She drowned herself, Dean—no body." Drowned herself like she'd wanted _Sam_ to drown himself. Dragged him to the edge of the river so she could take him under the water, convince him to let go—

He shivered.

"Drowned," Dean agreed, "but that doesn't mean no one found her and buried her."

Sam had the feeling Dean's brain was already somewhere his should be. He breathed through his nose, and forced himself to think. His brain felt achy and loose in his head and it took another moment for the train of thought to click. "The cold spot in the canyon?" He ran a hand over his matted hair and straightened. "You think Earl found her and buried her there."

"There has to be a reason that spot got to you, even in daylight."

_To us_, Sam thought, to _us_. His mind was still trying to process everything—put words and explanation to the mess of fears that'd been flying through his head. But he knew the _us_ mattered. Fears put back on each other—nullified, empty in the face of things more important. Empty in the face of _us_—strength and loyalty and _don't let go_.

He squinted at Dean. "You want to check it out _tonight_. Don't you."

"Should."

Sam groaned, already trying to talk his mind and muscles into it. And even though he was beat to hell, it really wasn't that hard. It would be worth it, just to know. Then, maybe he could relax, let go… maybe after making sure Sara and his other friends were really okay, one more time.

"We just gotta make sure, man," Dean continued, rubbing a hand up the back of his neck.

"I know."

Half a second later, Dean sighed. The kind of sigh that made Sam tense. Dad sighed that way and it was never followed by something Sam wanted to hear.

"You…" Dean started, looking away. "It's just double-checking. No big deal. The ghosts… they're done. It's over. You should… if you want to go crash at the Lodge, maybe talk to your friends, I can—"

"_No_," hard and bitter cold.

Weary eyes clashed. After a second, Dean shrugged. "I _am_ okay, Sam," he said softly, _tentatively_, like he wasn't totally sure that's where Sam's emotions were coming from.

"I know you are." And Sam did. He did know. It was just going to take a little more… a little more _time_… to get his body and brain and emotions all synchronized again. Because all the fear and anger—the emotions he'd had running through him—were still his. He was relieved by the freedom of not having the ghost twist and exploit them. Relieved by knowing _fear_ didn't always tell the truth, and when it did, didn't often tell the full story. But it was still going to take a little time.

And though he wasn't always sure what Dean was thinking, he did know Dean was just as exhausted as he was. That Dean was okay was true. But also true was that only _now_ were they at a point where Dean could actually really recover from everything. From the rawhead and all that came after.

Sam was also pretty sure Dean didn't really want to be apart from him because, when they'd finally moved from the river's edge—got each other to their feet, found Sara and the others and started moving across the graveyard—Dean had been watchful, absently touching Sam's arm or resting a hand on Sam's shoulder at every turn. Never more than five feet from Sam's reach. Proof that Dean was just as keen on keeping Sam as close as Sam was on keeping Dean.

Sam was sure of it. And he felt a flare of annoyance that, after everything they'd just been through, Dean would still pull this crap.

Dean grunted, spread his arms across the car's roof and curled his forehead down like Sam's had been. Not arguing the point.

Without Dean's direct gaze to warn him off, Sam stared again, and let the annoyance die.

There were things he wanted to ask, like—_How'd you do it, man? You could barely stay upright. How'd you come for me? _

And there were things he wanted to say, like—_I wish you could have a different life._ _I wish I understood you better. I wish you'd tell me things, because I'm afraid you won't, if something is ever really wrong._

He wanted to say _thank you _and_ I'm sorry._

…_for so many things I don't know where to start._

And he even wanted to say—_I'm still mad at you for almost dying… and I don't want you ever ever hurt because of me… and you say I was just a baby, but it still feels like it's all my fault._

He chewed the inside of his cheek, watched Dean, tested the beginning draw of air into his lungs and…

"I'm astounded this is somehow still working, but mostly, I'm wishing I could get it to stop."

Sam twisted.

Charlie. He was holding up a small grey radio—cautiously, like it might be possessed. Sam vaguely recognized it as having come from the Impala's trunk—thought he remembered it as the one Dean picked up from a garage sale on the east side of Nevada. It was muddy, dripping, and droning with a steady, monotone buzz.

Furrowing his eyebrows, Sam reached for it, examined it without comprehension for a long moment, then flipped it over. Finally, he stretched it across the car's roof. "Dean, off button?"

Dean reached back absently, hand finding the switch without looking. His eyes were on Jack and Elly, approaching behind Charlie, carrying the shovels they'd all traded off using to fill in Earl's grave.

"So, this is really over, right?" Jack asked.

"Yeah." Dean nodded, still sounding sure, but his eyes went to Elly in silent question.

She cocked her head to the side, looking tired but calm. At ease. Free. "I can't hear them anymore," she answered.

"Do you remember now? Everything from when… you know, from when you were gone?" Sam asked softly. He'd been watching her as much as he'd been watching Sara—had seen how, every once in a while, her gaze would waver—leave her standing frozen until Jack touched her shoulder and brought her back.

"Some of it." She shrugged, eyes darting to Jack and back, small, sad smile ghosting across her face. She leaned her back against the car next to Sam. "It's… confusing."

Confusing. _Disjointed… scattered. Horrifying and insane,_ Sam thought. _Confusing_ was putting it mildly, but it was more than he could say out loud himself, so he just nodded.

"Thank you," she said, returning his closed mouth smile. She looked at Dean. "Thank you. I don't know how you did it… but I know it was you two. Thank you."

Dean stared across the car, eyes briefly meeting Sam's. He opened his mouth, then closed it and Sam thought, maybe there were things _Dean_ wanted to say also. Instead, his brother looked down, fiddled keys out of his pocket and rounded to unlock the trunk.

Sam followed, tossed in the dripping radio in when it opened, then stepped away to let Dean and Jack situate the shovels, listening to them trade conversation in a low, comforting rumble. He felt another flash of _safe_—the way he'd felt hearing Dean and Dad clean up after a hunt when he was a kid. All done. All's well.

Charlie stepped near. Shoulder to Sam's.

He seemed… easier with everything than he'd been all night, though he still hadn't said much—at least not to Sam. Throughout the cleanup, whenever he'd drawn near, oddly, it was to talk to Dean—ask a question or make a comment. And he wasn't giving Dean the awe-filled wide berth the rest of his friends were instinctively allowing. Dean vibed _dangerous_ sometimes, and after this hunt… it would take a little time for Dean to come down from it. Yet Charlie was just taking it in stride.

Sam bit the inside of his cheek, tracing Charlie's gaze toward the van and the others.

Sara and Garrett still sat together, Donna supportively near, leaning against the van with her hands in her pockets. Kim was farther away, arms crossed, saying something to Blake, who was still pacing, shoulders sort of twitching. He paused when Sam looked over, caught his eye for a brief moment, swept his gaze in a circle to let it settle on Dean, said something to Kim, then looked away and started pacing again.

Sam felt he should probably go talk to them. His friends. He _wanted_ to talk to them. But he wasn't willing to walk the extra twenty feet he'd have to walk to do it. Not right then. Not ready yet to be out of Dean's immediate range, or have Dean out of his.

But Charlie… Charlie was standing at his elbow, and Sam didn't have to go away from Dean to talk to him.

"Listen," Sam hedged. "I know all this has been really… ah… weird—"

"Doesn't begin to cover it," Charlie cut him off, but grinned when he said it.

Sam relaxed a little, smiled, and felt a rush of simple gratitude—that Charlie had stuck with Dean, that Charlie had stuck through this and wasn't calling him a _freakin' psycho_ or looking at him like their whole friendship had been a sham.

"Thanks," Sam said sincerely, glancing quickly to Dean and back. "For everything." He felt his throat tighten—emotions embarrassingly close to the surface. He couldn't seem to get them back where they belonged. The Prisals were gone, but they'd reached deep, drawn blood from his soul, and the scabs were still setting.

Charlie's return smile was soft, quick and infectious. All Charlie. He clapped his hand warmly on Sam's shoulder. "You're welcome," he said, and seemed to understand, to get all of it—all of what he could get, at least—and Sam figured, if nothing else, at least he'd leave Lander with one friendship still intact.

* * *

The drive back up to the canyon trailhead was silent. Just the two of them again in a way that felt right, easy, like _home_.

Dean opened and closed his mouth several times, flicking his eyes over at Sam, but he didn't say anything and Sam didn't force him to.

When Dean parked the car but didn't get out, Sam waited.

After a few minutes, Dean pulled the keys from the ignition and let the car's dying hum feed the silence between.

"Sam," he said, staring forward, not showing his eyes. "I need you to listen to me. And I need you to listen good."

Sam nodded carefully, feeling his chest slowly expand with air. For a moment, echoes skimmed through his brain of the fake-Dean and his accusations. _Come on, kiddo, we both know…_

And then Dean looked at him, stark, bold, and unflinching.

Sam held his breath.

"What happened to Jessica… what happened to Mom… it was _not_ your fault."

Sam bit the inside edge of his lip. _And you_, he thought. _Am I responsible for what's happened to you?_ He'd wanted to blame _Dad,_ or the thing that killed Mom, anyone—even Dean himself—for all the things Dean had taken on since their childhood, all the things Sam was still struggling to put in perspective now that he was all the way back in this. And what the ghost had said felt too true, too real._ You killed her, _and _we never should have saved you, _and, _I'd be normal if it weren't for you._

"Whatever those ghosts were trying to make you believe... you didn't… you're _not _to blame_._"

Dean's face was stoic, but his eyes were something else. All the secrets, all the _everything_ Dean never said out loud. Dean believed this, what he was telling Sam. He believed it.

The lip between Sam's teeth trembled. He held himself completely still, afraid if he moved, Dean would stop talking, afraid if he moved he might fall apart, or make this real Dean disappear. These last weeks, he'd been barely holding it together, pent-up emotions from the rawhead and everything after running roughshod over him while he tried to keep just moving forward and now…

He felt his eyes water, felt the burn of emotion high in his nose. He wished he didn't cry like this, at the drop of a hat. Blubbery and wet and messy.

"They—" Dean cleared his throat, then started again, "They loved you, Sam. Mom _loved_ you… _so_ much… and I gotta believe that Jessica…" Dean looked away. "They were lucky to have you while they did."

Sam scrubbed a hand under his nose, bit harder on his lip, then released it.

Dean had told him this before… _it's not your fault_… _take a swing at me_… _I'm the one that dragged you away from her in the first place._ Deflection and anything else he could throw out to keep his little brother from taking the blame. Sam wasn't sure he'd ever believe Dean fully, but he needed Dean to keep saying it. Knew it probably frustrated Dean that he _had_ to keep saying it. Maybe as much as Dean's stoic, steady, smartass crap frustrated Sam.

He swallowed, sniffed. His face felt hot and his cheeks pulsed. _Too much, too long, too close._

Dean was watching him, so he forced a nod, then turned to look out the passenger window when more tears slid down his cheeks.

Dean's hand came to the back of his neck, squeezing gently, patiently.

This was the part of Dean he loved best. Offering safety without question, affection without reproach—_fathermotherbrother_—fingers solid and familiar, waiting steady until Sam gave the nod that said he was okay enough to get out of the car and get this done.

And as he followed Dean into the canyon, he wished… he wished he knew which words Dean needed for him to say in return. And he wished, if he said them, Dean would actually listen.

* * *

_Sinks Canyon, south fork, 2006_

They found Prisal Two where they suspected they would.

Pushing away the bushes that had grown over the spot, they uncovered a large boulder, almost as tall as Sam—one of several hugging the base of the canyon wall, having tumbled from above and settled in this space long ago. When their flashlights swept over the surface, they saw what they hadn't had time to notice the first time—_Elsa_ scratched crudely onto its side.

It didn't matter, Dean thought, which Prisal had been which, but it was nice, for some reason, to know.

Nora under the floorboards. Elsa in the river.

Elsa making a bid for freedom. Nora left behind. Earl reacting, trapping them all in a loop.

Maybe Elsa had begged Nora to go with her—maybe Nora had begged her to stay.

Maybe Nora had woken one day to Elsa just _gone_. Maybe Nora had expected to be left behind.

Or maybe Elsa had always meant to go back for her.

And he wondered—had Elsa drowned herself before or after Nora was no more? Was it fear? Anger? Guilt? Had Nora been part of what Elsa wanted to be free of?

The Leaver and The Left. In the end, that's all they'd seen in each other. Maybe all they'd ever had between them was hate and regret. Maybe…

"Dean."

Maybe it didn't matter.

Dean blinked slowly, away from the etched name and up at Sam—good Sam, healthy Sam. A Sam who hadn't entirely given up on watching him—staring, staring and staring.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." Dean rubbed his eye. "I'm good. Let's dig."

"Think she was buried straight out from the rock?"

"Best guess." Dean shrugged. "It's east facing." Not that he suspected Earl to have been particularly religious, but it was a starting point.

Sam nodded.

Dean clamped a hand—brief, quick—on Sam's arm. He didn't feel the familiar rebound of pain and disorientation when he let go… but he thought it might take him a while before he broke the habit. He turned to grab the shovels, handing one to Sam. Moving slow. Adrenaline having leaked out of him long ago. He was running on autopilot, increasingly surprised that they were both still standing.

But the persistent, dizzying throb behind his sternum was gone.

And he had Sam. Sam was safe.

Sam was _safe_.

Looking like an awkwardly oversized, overused rag doll, but _safe_.

Dean shifted his angle, toeing a stone aside and drawing his elbow back so he wouldn't knock Sam's head when he tossed his dirt. Sam accommodated the action unconsciously, and Dean paused on it, conscious of the connection between them. Of the way they worked. Of the imprint Sam had left on his wrists when he'd chosen to hang on instead of let go. Opening his mouth, Dean nearly asked him why—why he'd chosen to hold on when he knew, in part, Sam had believed whatever the ghosts had been telling him. But it was a stupid question, and in the end, Dean wasn't sure he needed to know.

Sam hadn't let go. Sam was alive. That's all that mattered.

_There is a difference between want and need._

He swallowed thickly and forced his shovel deeper into the soil.

Sam bent to pull another rock from the deepening hole, straightening tall before pushing his shovel back in. Dean felt the brief stare—gaze dragging over him just a moment too long, before he dug his own shovel in deeper and discarded another chunk of rocky dirt.

From there, they worked together in slow, methodical silence.

When the first bone was uncovered, they realized they were off center and had to dig over to get the rest of it. It wasn't as deep as an average grave. And there was no coffin. No box.

When they'd uncovered everything, they cleared the brush from around the grave as much as possible, used extra salt, and just enough lighter fluid.

Dean folded himself down, back against the canyon wall, Sam doing the same with his back against a broken tree, feet stretched out, shoelaces touching Dean's knee.

The flames were warm, seeped through the persistent numbness shrouding Dean's body, and produced a hard dark smoke that licked its way up the side of the boulder and stained a black stripe over Elsa's name. The flickers cast shadows and light over Sam's face and Dean found _himself_ staring, staring, and staring.

It'd been close and… it bugged him that his own fears—his own _crap_—had almost made him too late. Hated that he'd been weak, vulnerable to a ghost he should have been stronger than—both times. He hated that Sam had almost paid for it. That his fears had almost kept him from saving his brother.

If it hadn't been for Charlie…

He felt the burn low in his throat, high in his nose, and he swallowed _hard_ to squelch it. Rubbed dirty knuckles over his aching forehead and blanked his mind.

When the flames began to die and the smoke thickened, they pulled each other to their feet, danked the fire, packed the earth back in the grave as much as possible, and coaxed a few of the displaced shrubs back over Elsa's etched name.

They didn't see the jacket until they were back on the pathway next to the river. A glint of starlight-moonlight reflecting off a sliver of bright red snagged on a branch sticking up from the water.

Sam dropped the canvas carryall with the shovels and moved forward—one foot already in the river before Dean grabbed the tail of his jacket and yanked him back. It was a calm part of the river, no rush of undercurrent… but…

"Dean, I'm not going to drown."

"Humor me."

Sam sighed heavily, rolled his eyes, but Dean caught the brief flash of smile. "Fine."

Dean took Sam's place, stepping carefully. He was chest deep by the time he reached the branch snagging the jacket's collar. He could see then, the body wearing it—trapped under the surface by the rest of the wood. As he shifted it, the branch broke and the body rolled, bloated face tilting up.

Addison Wright.

Right where the hundred searchers who'd combed the canyon should have found her.

He had a sudden flash of Sammy, face down in the same water. Missing, un-findable, irredeemable, thinking his own death was the answer because he already blamed himself for everything else—believed he could hurt people, just by being.

"Dean, maybe you shouldn't touch her," Sam said from the shoreline. "You're legally dead, man. We can't get caught up with the authorities. We can go… tell Jack… or leave an anonymous tip."

The river water dragged around Dean's body, twisting the material of his shirt. He wondered how long Addison had felt that sensation before it'd tugged her under. She was already dead, had been for weeks, but she was also alone. Her surfacing now was like a plea to be finally put to rest—appearing now like she could be, finally free. He didn't want to leave her there, in the cold and the wet. "I—"

"We'll make the call as soon as we get out of the canyon. I promise."

Dean stood in the cold water for another minute, already numb from a thousand other things. Already so tired that this felt like too much.

"Dean."

Closing his eyes, he nodded, waded soggily back to the shoreline and accepted Sam's hand guiding him back to dry land. Accepted the extra-tight clamp Sam maintained on his shoulder while he scraped the mud from his feet.

Dean had known, not everything would be fixed when it was over, had known since age four that even with the bad things dead, not everything could be reversed, but… it still bothered him that it couldn't be.

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006_

"Charlie, you can't drink with a head injury." Jack tapped his fingers pointedly next to the stitches on Charlie's skull.

"Ow. I won't. I'll drink a soda or something. But if there was ever a night we needed to sit at a bar and chill, this would be it. The others are already over there."

Jack scowled. And it was weird, because Charlie hadn't known the expressionless, unflappable Jack could scowl—at least, not like that.

He pulled on his jacket and straightened the lapels. "You can come babysit me if you like. Won't even have to drive. We're going to Carter's right next door."

Jack just looked at him.

It was Elly that spoke next. "_I'll_ go. I think he's right. If there was ever a night to drink…"

"That attitude right there—that's how people become alcoholics." Jack pointed, ticking his finger.

She wove her arm through Charlie's. "Then maybe I'll go babysit Charlie to make sure he doesn't become one. You can stay here."

Jack smiled, but Charlie caught the fast flash of worry underneath when he looked at her. He was starting to see why Jack liked Elly. He was starting to like her too—the non-crazy, not-being-haunted-by-ghost-voices version of her. There were moments where he saw flashes in her eyes, moments where she just... faded out. But he figured that was normal after what she'd been through. Hoped it was. Hoped it was something she'd bounce back from—that they'd all bounce back from.

He was still trying to get used to the idea that his brother was engaged.

He was still trying to get used to a lot of things.

"I'll come," said Jack, with false weariness, and Charlie grinned, swinging the door open wide.

When they got down to the parking lot, they saw Kim was sitting on one of the benches next to the wall. "Hey," she greeted.

"I thought you went over already. Aren't you coming?" Charlie asked. He waved Jack and Elly on. Jack gave him a nod and a squeeze to the shoulder and kept walking.

"I am. But, I wanted to talk to Sam when he got back. Do you know… is he coming over to the bar?"

"I don't… he said he and his brother had one last thing to take care of. I don't know how long they'll be. But it's been a really rough time for him tonight. I'm not sure he will."

Kim shrugged.

"I'm sure we'll see him tomorrow," Charlie continued.

"Yeah, I just want to make sure he knows we're over there. Talk to him a minute, if he's up to it. You go on. I'll come in a bit."

It was Charlie's turn to shrug. But he didn't move away. He hesitated while watching Kim's face. "You know, Sam… he didn't tell us about all this stuff for a reason. He wasn't—"

"Is this what his family… I mean, this is crazy to even be… is this what they do? Back at the graveyard…"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm pretty sure it is."

"Is that why he never talked about them… like we'd think _he _was crazy?"

Charlie shifted.

She looked at him—looked at him like he could give her more than that. "I don't know why or how or anything. Sam hasn't told me that much. But—"

"I know. Sorry, it's just… you've talked to him more than the rest of us. Blake thinks—"

"I just think we need to go easy on him, okay?"

"Of course," she said, looking up at him. "Hey, you go ahead, I'm just going to wait a little longer. I'll meet you there."

"'kay." He hesitated another moment. "Are you okay here alone? I mean, after everything tonight?"

Kim swept her eyes around. "I was freaked earlier, but like, _way_ earlier, before we even left to follow you guys and saw… everything we saw. I guess I should be still… but it doesn't feel so scary anymore."

Charlie looked around the parking lot—wet pavement reflecting light from stars and streetlamps. It did feel safe, benign. Maybe that meant something. Maybe he'd be paying attention to those sort of feelings a lot from now on. "Maybe you're right." He glanced around once more then finally started to walk away. "See you over there."

"Hey, Charlie?" Kim called.

"Yeah?"

"Did we really see a _ghost_ tonight?" She was kind of smiling.

"Either that or we all need to be committed," he shrugged, returning the smile. It still felt… kinda like a dream.

* * *

There was a note stuck to their door when they got back. Dean pulled it off, squinting at it while Sam twisted the key to let them into their room. Sam cocked an eyebrow in Dean's direction, then, when Dean didn't move, settled a hand on his arm to usher him inside. "Good reading?"

"Your friends have gone to get a drink at the bar next door and would like you to join them—_love,_ Kim," Dean said, patting the note onto Sam's chest.

"I can barely see straight," Sam dismissed.

Dean's face changed from teasing to serious. "You should go. Talk to them. They're going to have questions."

"Not ones I can answer."

Dean peeled off his muddy jacket, slumped into the chair next to the table and fumbled clumsily with his bootlaces. "Dude, you want to, I can tell. Take a shower so you don't look like an axe murderer and go grab a drink. You're not going to be able to sleep unless you at least check in with them… and you can stop staring and hovering _anytime_ now."

Sam gave him a look, assessing and lingering—staring, staring, and staring, again.

Dean tried to glare him off, but he was too bleary. Too weary. And still fighting his own ridiculous neediness to _keep Sam near_ while pretending he wasn't.

"Are you going to come?"

"It's not me they want to talk to."

Sam sighed and stripped off his jacket, then went into the bathroom and got the shower running—coming back out to lean a shoulder against the wall.

Dean could feel his frown.

"What are you going to do if I go?"

"Sleep. I feel like I haven't slept in days."

"You haven't," Sam reminded.

"That's not true, or did you forget I was unconscious last night?"

Sam huffed. "Not funny," he grunted. "If you're trying to be convincing about me leaving you here alone, you're not helping yourself."

"You don't have to stay because of _me,_" he shot back. And even he heard the underlying emotions in the way he said it—sharp enough that he surprised himself, compassionate enough that he felt his ears burn.

Sam narrowed his eyes.

Dean lowered his voice. "I'm fine, Sam. I'm better. Really. Go relax, man. Have a quick drink. Come back, and we'll both sleep till noon."

Sam's jaw muscle jumped and his slightly misty, supremely soulful eyes told Dean he wasn't being that convincing. He found himself almost wishing for the sullen, angry Sam… the one who gave him a hard time about following Dad's orders and his unhealthy coping mechanisms… not the one who looked at Dean like he was seeing him for the first time and couldn't think how he'd missed him.

Dean sighed and tugged at his other boot.

"And you're just going to sleep?"

"Yes, Sam. Sleep."

Sam folded his arms. "If I go… don't… don't leave the room, okay?"

"What else would I do, Sam?"

"I don't know… are you hungry? We didn't eat."

"I'm too wiped to be hungry. I'm just going to sleep."

Sam tilted his head, letting his mud crusted hair flop forward. "Dean, I'm not—"

Dean rolled his eyes, but it was more for show than out of actual aggravation.

"I know," Sam forestalled, holding up a hand. "I know you're not sick anymore. I do. Just… _humor _me. Okay? You've been… you've been through a lot in last few weeks, Dean. No one just shakes that off—"

"Like you weren't just put through the wash, whirl, and beat-the-hell-out-of-me rinse cycle."

"So, neither one of us should go."

"Sam—"

"Dean, I'm not saying…"

Dean's lips twitched. "I get it," he calmed, holding a boot between his hands. "I'll just be sleeping, that's all."

But five minutes after his own shower—fifteen minutes after Sam hesitantly stepped out the door—Dean realized that wasn't all.

He was itchy with Sam out of sight.

Couldn't do it.

How stupid was that? The ghosts were no more. There was no more infection. No more heart issue. There was nothing hunting Sam or threatening to make him disappear… and Dean still couldn't do it.

Ellicott-infected-Sam back in Illinois had been right—_pathetic._

He kept hearing the broken way Sam had said _Dad_ and _you either_ at the graveyard when the ghost had been trying to pull them apart. Kept feeling the echoes of Sam's fingers close around his arms.

Letting Sam go now felt… not right.

It was close to how he'd felt the night Jessica died. The feeling in his gut and the almost physical voice that had demanded he _go back_ after he'd driven away.

And that was another crowded, convoluted, confusing subject. He knew, logically, he was not to blame for Jessica's death, any more than Sam was but… he _had_ dragged Sam away from her. And it felt like he'd been the one to bring the supernatural back into Sam's life, just by showing up and…

It was no wonder Sam hadn't wanted him there when he'd been taken to the hospital at Stanford last year. His years untouched by Dean and Dad were years untouched by the supernatural. Maybe Sam had known it had to be one or the other. How could he have possibly wanted Dean or Dad showing up to ruin that for him, showing up to erase the careful lines between himself and the side he'd chosen?

Which was further evidence that Dean should stay here and let Sam have a few moments with his Stanford friends without having to think about Dean or their next hunt but…

Dean flicked the TV off, rubbed a hand over his face and weighted the options.

He could go, sit, have a drink, lurk in the corner. Pretend he'd gotten hungry and wanted some food… if this bar had food. No big deal. Just be there, see Sam, see he was okay, and not interfere. Maybe talk to Jack or Charlie for a minute—just until Sam was ready to leave.

And Sam… he didn't think Sam would mind. Not this time.

Tossing the remote aside, he pulled on clean jeans, a dry jacket, and—a little disgusted with himself—headed over.

* * *

Dean was wrong, Sam thought. He would have slept _fine_ without seeing his friends. He already felt a little drunk without having yet put foot in the bar—eyes too dry and muscles droopy.

And all this—this going to talk to his friends—was bizarrely surreal. A tilt-tumble reflection of the hundred and one nightmare scenarios he'd filled his mind with back at Stanford about the possibilities of Jess or his friends finding out. All nightmares, because back then he'd thought nothing good could ever come from it. Back then, he'd still been running and denying and pretending so hard it hurt.

He clamped down on the memories, pushed them away, and ignored the hollow space they left behind. Putting one foot in front of the other, he walked toward the sign down the street that said _Carter's_.

He did want to know how his friends were dealing. He wanted to know they weren't flipping out, thinking they were crazy, or thinking _he_ was crazy. Charlie seemed to be finally taking things in stride, and, back with the shapeshifter, Rebecca hadn't run screaming away from him. She'd felt bad for Sam, in the end, but that was something he didn't want from his friends either—pity.

He ran into Kim first, out on the sidewalk in front of the bar as he turned the corner. She looked casual but contemplative and like she had something to say.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey."

"Kinda cold out here—why aren't you inside?"

"Just wanted to see if you were coming." She shrugged, but didn't move to go in.

Sam shuffled his feet. "Listen, Kim, about tonight—"

"Is this the type of investigating your brother consults on? What he… is this what he does? What he has you doing?"

"It's what _we_ do," he answered, thinking, maybe this hadn't been such a great idea. He didn't know how to explain this to anyone. And he knew very well people could think he was crazy even when they'd seen what they'd seen with their own two eyes.

Kim looked thoughtful. "And your dad does this too?"

Sam felt his stomach tighten. _Don't lose him now, son_, and _Why didn't you come for Dean and me when I called you—when he was dying?_ rolling through his head. "Yeah," he breathed. "He… for a long time. It's just sort of… just what we do." He put his hands in his jacket pockets and sort of shrugged.

Kim tilted her head, face scrutinizing. "Family business?"

"Yeah." Sam cleared his throat.

"And he taught you… all that stuff? Seems pretty scary." Kim's voice had taken on a gentle tone—the one Sam suspected he would have heard a lot more of if he'd stuck around Stanford a bit longer after Jessica died.

"Less scary if you know how to deal with it," he answered.

"And you… you _like_ doing this? I mean… are you happy?"

He didn't say anything.

"I guess… it makes sense that you'd want to be a lawyer instead. It makes sense that you… you know... that you never wanted to talk about your family."

Sam flinched.

Kim didn't seem to notice.

"Were you guys here because of… this?"

"Yeah. We were."

"This is so incredible. I don't even know what to think anymore. I mean, seeing… what we saw, and even… seeing you with that _gun_. I keep telling myself it was real, but—"

"Give it time," Sam said gently, curling his hands into fists and hoping, for some reason, that Kim didn't ask what Rebecca had—_Did Jessica know?_

Kim nodded. "I know. That's what Charlie told me. But it... it takes some getting used to. Blake still thinks it was some kind of trick, or… like the fog was messing with us. He's twisting his brain into pretzels trying to figure it out. At first, he wanted to call the police and now, he's saying it was maybe a prank that he can figure out—make sure it doesn't happen again."

Sam blinked slowly. He wasn't sure how he'd really convince Blake otherwise. Experience had taught him that some people would rewrite any event just to make it fit into their version of the world. When they chose that, there wasn't much that could be said to change their mind. The mention of Blake brought another thought also, caused a small tick inside him—made him wonder once more what Blake had said to Dean, back before things got so out of hand. Made him wonder what Sara had been apologizing for.

It seemed so long ago. It probably didn't matter now. After everything.

Kim sighed in the silence, brushed a curl behind her ear, and gestured. "Guess we should go in."

Sam nodded, closemouthed, and tried to ignore Dean's voice in his head that said _she's hot and bothered for you. _He stepped forward and swung open the heavy wood door in front of them.

He could smell more than alcohol wafting out as soon as they crossed the threshold—a combination of bar and roadhouse fare—and he thought maybe that would be his out. He could order something for Dean, spend just as much time with his friends as preparing the order would require—enough to make sure they were dealing—then take the _order up_ as his excuse to go back to the room, make sure Dean was as okay and not as un-hungry as he said he was.

"Hey," Garrett called, stepping up to them as soon as they were inside. He put a hand on Sam's shoulder and ushered him toward their table. "Did you hear?"

"What?"

Charlie stood from the table and made eye contact, looking knowing and… compassionate.

Sam twitched his eyebrows together. _What?_

"Someone called in an anonymous tip—they found Addison Wright's body."

* * *

The bar _did_ have food. Dean could smell it as soon as he walked in the door, hints of meat and onion in the air, but his stomach was too tired to grumble.

A well of voices and claps surged up from the far side of the room, a small group swarming around one of the pool tables. Dean blinked and caught a glimpse of Blake with a pool cue in their midst. He must have just made a good shot.

Over the din of mumbling voices, Charlie called his name. The rest of Sam's friends were seated at a high table near the bar, working lazily through a plate of nachos. Jack and Elly were in a booth behind them and Jack lifted his glass at him, giving a nod.

He didn't see Sam.

Dean unzipped his jacket and headed toward them, feeling the kind of exhausted that made his body seem detached from his brain.

"Where's Sam?" he asked, when he was near enough.

"You just missed him," Sara answered. She looked a little pale, but okay. He hadn't been wrong—she was dealing. "He said he wanted to get back to the room—said he was beat. And he had food for you."

Dean looked from the table to the door he'd just come through. He should have _passed_ Sam if—

"He took the back exit." Charlie pointed toward the pool tables and the hallway behind them with a wood placard reading _Restrooms_. "Opens into the alley between the bar and the back of the Lodge. It's faster. You don't have to walk around the whole building to get back. Sam left, like, thirty seconds ago."

"Thanks."

"Not gonna sit for a drink first?"

"Nah," Dean dismissed, but patted Charlie's shoulder as he slid past the table. "'nother time."

"Hey, Dean?"

He turned his head as Sara slipped off her stool and stepped forward. He paused.

"Tell Sam I think what you guys did tonight… was pretty amazing. He seemed… just… just tell him I think so."

Dean felt the rush mumble of background voices, clinking glasses and bottles, skirting around him, and heard the underlying _don't let him worry about me_ in Sara's words. He swallowed, cleared his throat and gave a nod, feeling something extra fierce beat in his chest—something grateful and relieved. Glad Sam had made a few good friends while away from his family—friends who'd apparently picked up on his tendency to bear the burdens of the world. "Thanks. Sam, he ah… thank you."

She nodded, gave a closed half-smile that reminded him of his brother's, then sat back down and let Dean resume his journey to the door.

He already knew he wasn't going to want the food Sam got for him, and his _I got hungry_ excuse would be out the window. But enough had happened that he was suddenly willing to just admit, _yeah, I wanted to make sure you were dealing, and yeah, I wasn't ready to have you out of my sight just yet, and yes, damn it, I'm a pansy ass big brother who apparently gets wobbly and weepy when you're gone—with or without ghosts involved_.

By the back exit, he paused to re-zip his jacket—three tries to get the zipper to catch. Sniffed back a yawn and rubbed tear-tired eyes. Pushed the door open and took the two-by-four to the gut before he'd even cleared the doorway.

It knocked the air from him—knocked him back into the doorjamb. Stole breath and voice and put him on his knees.

A blunt flash explosion of pain in the side of his head and he was down—tasted gravel under his tongue, saw grey sparkling specks swirl through his vision. Knew another blow was coming that he wouldn't be able to stop.

Everything blurred after that. Pain, no air, and twirling foggy shapes.

If…

If the first swing hadn't knocked the air out of him and the second hadn't been to his head…

If his gut had warned him of _anything_…

If he and Sam hadn't just crashed through a week and a half of hell…

If…

If…

If…

…it never would have happened.

Ten minutes after it was over, Dean would curse himself for not having seen it coming.

"Jess _said_ you were bad news—that weekend you came for Sam. Sick _freak_. She knew it."

The voice was warbled, disembodied, bouncing low off the alley walls, echoing back and back and back into Dean's ears, blending to a high shrill.

Then nothing but black.

* * *

tbc


	31. Chapter 31

Thus the long maudlin chronicles of the Winchester Boys in Lander, Wyoming comes to an end. Okay, continues first, and then comes to an end.

And can I get a "hallelujah" from the readers in the back?

* * *

**Part 31**

* * *

_Lander, Wyoming, 2006_

_Unbelievable_, Sam thought, juggling two to-go boxes and the key as he entered the room.

The _empty_ room.

He tossed the steak fries and chili-roasted quesadilla on the table.

"I'm _fine_, Sam. I'm just going to _sleep_, Sam. I'm just going to tell you whatever you want to hear to so I can keep my stupid Marine-Dad-indoctrinated, emotionally-repressed, older brother poker face, Sam… la la la." _Friggin jerk._

He let the annoyance crawl up his spine and percolate into the base of his skull while he dug out his cell phone and dialed.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The Impala was in the parking lot.

Glimpses through the windows of the Oxbow restaurant—the closest locale his brother might have gone to if he'd gotten hungry—revealed no Dean. But there was also a McDonald's across the street. And The Roadway Inn Pronghorn Lodge's _Lander Guidebook—_found on top of the nightstand—informed Sam of just under a dozen other bars and eateries positioned down Main Street. All within walking distance.

He searched the table and nightstand for any sign Dean had left a note, growled through his teeth when he came up empty, and sat on the edge of the bed to dial again.

Then, flashing back to Dean collapsed after his shower at Charlie's, went to check inside the open bathroom… _just in case_.

He was fingering the pile of Dean's muddy clothes, feeling for the keys of the Impala, when the door opened.

"Where _were_ you?" he called, dropping his brother's jeans and exiting the bathroom.

Dean stood stock still inside the door. The scrape on his forehead had reopened—again—and trickling blood was tracing the ridge of his eyebrow. Blood was also dripping from his nose and lips—a small drying river of it smeared thickly in front of his ear and down the side of his neck, part of his hair painted dark with it.

Purple covered his jawline, blotching up his cheek, creeping darkly onto his forehead.

One arm was being held stiffly across his stomach.

Stark, wide, strangely un-swollen eyes met Sam's, shining dark with color for a bright moment—rolling to white as Dean crumpled to the floor.

* * *

Dean awoke on a cough, jerking against it—something trickling down the back of his throat, triggering his gag reflex.

"Easy," said Sam, smooth hands pressing under his shoulders, shifting him higher on the bed. Sam's hands felt warm and Dean's head pulsed and swam as Sam moved him. He coughed again and felt his chest spasm thickly, pain rocketing in a circuit around to the ribs in his back. "Easy."

Dean swallowed his next cough but gagged on the tickle in his throat and the harsh copper taste coating his tongue. He ended up groaning and coughing harder.

"Whoa—no," Sam averted, stopping him before he sat up. "Here." He pressed a cup delicately to Dean's lower lip, one large hand shifting from his shoulder to the back of his head. "Don't swallow—rinse," he ordered.

Dean swished, spat red swirled water and bits of dusty gravel into the ice bucket Sam held out—leaned back into the pillows and hummed a moan over tender-raw lips.

The room's lights dipped and swirled in his vision.

Sam's fingers caught his chin, tilted it down, creeped inside his mouth.

Dean grunted but let them, achy slither of pain taking over his jaw as Sam pressed gingerly. "No broken teeth," he assured softly, taking his fingers away.

Dean hummed again, closed his eyes, watched the slow tilt of movement and color behind his lids and fought to hold the nausea in. His ears felt excessively hollow, everything loud. He could hear Sam's preparatory swallow.

"You need stitches, at least," he said. Fingers feathered over the side of Dean's head, eliciting a flinch, replaced in the next moment by a damp cloth. "And your ribs—I think they're… they might be broken. I should get Jack." His voice wobbled.

"No." Dean shook his head, stopped when the world flipped, focused on not moving and repeated himself instead. "No. I'm… I'm good." It was hard to talk, mumble hiss of hurt rolling over him. His eyes drooped and he let them, took inventory and figured, by the hard beat in is head and the gremlins slow dancing over the nerves in his chest, Sam was probably right—broken, hopefully just cracked.

* * *

The next time he was aware of anything, his shirt was off, he could feel towel wrapped icepacks pressed down his sides. A throbbing pulse was beating through his stomach and his chest was peanut butter thick when he tried to breathe.

"Dean, what happened?" Sam asked, a miserable low rumble of anxiety.

Dean opened his eyes to see Sam's were pinched—to see Sam was looking at him like he was broken in places that couldn't be reached.

And Dean didn't know what to say to that. He didn't know what to tell him.

He didn't want this… event… to become one more thing Sam had no right to feel guilty about, but would anyway.

"Dean—"

"_Sam_." He wanted his tone to convince Sam to let it go. Wanted to sound strong enough, clear enough, sane enough, for Sam to know he hadn't gone out and _picked_ some fight on purpose—that this wasn't some manifestation of his apparently messed up psyche. Self-flagellation, or whatever Sam was thinking.

Sam didn't speak. He looked away from Dean's face—leaned forward with his forearms on his knees, hands laced together, fingers clamped bloodless and white between his knees, staring at the carpet with an uneven expression.

Dean tracked his profile—watched his jaw muscle move and his throat work. "Sam—"

"It wasn't your fault, either."

"What?"

Sam kept staring at the carpet. "What happened to Jessica—it wasn't _your_ fault either."

Dean closed his mouth, felt the rawness of his lips rubbing together and glanced away—focused on the drab green of the bedspread and felt a shake start somewhere deep inside his messed up body.

"She would've… she would've really liked you."

_Jessica knew you were bad news._

_Sick freak._

Dean blinked.

"I meant what I said—before—back with Bloody Mary. I don't blame you. You didn't drag me away from her. And you didn't bring the demon to her." Sam's voice was laced with earnestness. He turned his head, expression gauging Dean's reaction, looking sympathetic and determined, operating on the best knowledge he had because they'd both been feeling and feeling and feeling so much, leaving each other guessing and grabbing.

"Sam, you don't have to—"

"No, just listen. _Please_. I don't know what you've been thinking about these past few days… but I know your ghost—"

"It wasn't _my_ ghost."

"—has been messing with you, and we know now—we know it was the same ghost as before and—"

"Sam—"

"You said it _hurt_—before, back in '96—when Dad and I… when we weren't _with_ you."

"Sam—"

"And I don't know if it hurt the same this time. You said it didn't but… I don't know if you'd _tell_ me that. And I know—I_ know_—these ghosts, what they latched onto and what they brought to the surface, was _already_ there. In _me_ they did. And what your ghost said in the graveyard… you _need_ to know…"

He _had_ what he needed. He had Sam._ Want and need_…

"I mean… I _told_ you… I'm in this. I'm _with_ you. You're _not_ alone. I said we'd see this through _together_. And you're not—"

Dean tried to get words to his throat—couldn't get them to move out of his chest.

"I mean… you're my _brother_. I'm not worried about getting new law school interviews or whatever you're thinking. I'm here. And I know you must've—you've heard Blake pushing me to go back to school. And I think he must've said something to you, because Sara said he did, but just because he thinks I should, that doesn't—"

"He told me you were in the hospital last year."

Silence, and Sam furrowing his brow. "What?"

Dean worked his mouth, tested his sore lips, sore jaw, sore body—wobbly head—met Sam's confused eyes. "He said… he said you were taken to the ER and that you didn't want us there… that you didn't want me or Dad to come."

Sam stared.

Time turned sticky-sludge-swamp slow, flashes of thoughts flitting over Sam's face, pieces tumbling into place, or cards falling from a tower, Dean wasn't sure which.

Sam blinked.

A short, drawn moment later, Dean saw the shift.

Sam's gaze sharpened—groped over Dean's face, down his torso, and back to his eyes.

The little brother expression disappeared—became something inherited straight from John Winchester—white at the edges and hard around the mouth. Eyes flat cold and questioning.

Dean swallowed, felt a wash of resignation. He tipped his head forward and conceded, admitting in monotone, "He blindsided me with a two-by-four, going out the back."

* * *

There was a rush and flood of blood pound-pound-pounding in his ears. Ticks of the second hand clicking faster and faster as everything click-click-clicked into place.

_Thanks for the game, shortstop_—Dean stiff and thrumming tension.

Walking into Charlie's kitchen the other night to see Dean _wearing a darkening expression, eyes raking over Sam._

Sara saying, _I wanted to apologize—for Blake. I know he's been a real jerk._

Blake taunting Dean into a fight—_Right. Marines. Known for their great investigative skills._

And Dean confessing—_He told me you were in the hospital last year… that you didn't want me or Dad to come._

The last one sticking in Sam's throat like rare rancid honey. Because there was no way Blake could have told Dean something like that with anything other than cruelty in mind. Rawheads and ghosts and a million other things—they weren't supposed to have needed to protect themselves from _humans_. Friends. _His_ friends. _He blindsided me with a two-by-four_… _blindsided… blindsided…  
_

The rage settled over Sam like wool—spun tighter and thicker with each step back toward Carter's. Deep and hazy and coldly _calm calm calm_.

Tables of John Deer capped people silenced as he passed—responding to the danger he spread to the air.

Blake sat on a stool near the bar, Charlie on his left and Sara on his right, looking vaguely pleased and indifferent—a small scrape visible across the back of one knuckle when he lifted his beer to his mouth.

When he noticed Sam, his mouth curled up in the corners, expression reflecting something like _kindness_, a blatant facsimile, and it made Sam want to hurl.

The realization that they had a problem crossed Blake's face a second too late. "Sa—" He never got to finish. Sam's fist flew, lighting quick, no tells. Sharp, violent—crack and burst of blood. It knocked Blake bluntly sideways, took him completely off his stool.

He was still conscious when he hit the floor, because Sam _wanted_ him to be. He wanted him to hear this, and not misinterpret one single word.

"Sam!" It might have been Sara's voice. He didn't care. There were a few other surprised shouts, and a strong arm trying to circle him as he stood over Blake—over Blake's bruising face and his bleeding nose and mouth.

Sam shook off the arm _laughably_ restraining him—Jack's, he realized—and stepped closer.

"If you _ever_ touch my brother again, look at him sideways, go near him, or even _say_ his _name_, you will spend the rest of your life breathing through a tube you _son of a bitch_." Words starting cold and soft—building in momentum until they sounded like gunfire.

"Sam." Jack pulled, but not before Sam had a hand on the stool Blake had been sitting on, knocking it over to bounce heavy across Blake's wide-eyed stare, knocking him out cold.

A murmur and shuffle grew from the crowd. From the corner of his eye, Sam saw the bartender making slow movements—reaching for a phone or a gun, Sam didn't know, didn't care.

He turned, shook off Jack, bee-lined for the alleyway, left shock and silence in his wake, awestruck expressions on the faces of his friends, and didn't care at all what _any_ of them thought. Calm, easygoing, freakin' _docile_ Sam—not caring at all. Still shaking with so much rage, it scared him.

When he got outside, he was grateful for the cold in the air because his face felt hot, roasted, crackling with emotions that kept him shaky. He leaned back against the cool brick of the alley wall and tried not to see the tiny, dark splatterings on the ground that may or may not have been Dean's blood.

His legs wouldn't hold him anymore and he slid down, jackknifing his knees in front of him, sucking in both cheeks and biting down to keep from breaking into sobs.

Despite his efforts, a few tears leaked out.

Which made it doubly horrific when Charlie's brother knelt down in front of him.

"Sam?" The _gentle_ voice again. Would people just stop using that around him? It made him feel more insane than he already was. "Did something happen to Dean?"

Sam didn't trust his voice—settled on merely nodding.

"Where is he?"

"He won't go to the clinic."

"He back in your room?"

Sam nodded again. His eyes darted behind Jack to see Charlie and Donna in the doorway, Kim standing startled-white behind them.

Jack moved, blocking Sam's view and forcing eye contact. "Let's go look at your brother, okay?"

Sam sniffed, gave another nod, and let Jack pull him to his feet. He deliberately didn't look at any of his friends—let Jack guide him forward, past them, with a hand on his back.

"Jack?" Charlie's voice echoed behind them.

"Check on Blake," Jack ordered. "Then get my first aid kit from the car and meet us over there."

At the mention of Blake, Sam paused, a flare in his gut, but Jack pressed his hand harder into his back and kept him moving.

* * *

Jack was good.

And not just at being a doctor, Sam realized.

After Jack had seen Dean—propped on the bed, fading in and out of consciousness whenever he tried to move—when he'd seen the evidence of the brutality in Blake's attack, he'd wanted to call the police. When he'd picked up on the fact that neither Dean nor Sam wanted the police involved, he'd tossed his first aid kit aside impatiently and used the information as leverage to get Dean to the clinic.

Sam had had no objections.

He was just grateful that—instead of making him wait out in the linoleum loud foyer like he'd had to the last time—Jack let him follow with as x-rays were taken, let Sam lurk in the corner of the curtained treatment room as Jack cleaned and bandaged, as he stitched Dean's bloody head and hooked him to an IV.

"He should be out the rest of the night," Jack told him.

Dean was back in the same bed—in the same position—he'd been in before being released from the clinic that afternoon. The difference was, next to the regular plastic chair in the corner, Jack had wheeled in a ratty, cloth-covered barcalounger. "It's from Dr. Norris's office," he shrugged. "She uses it to take naps when things get slow. I'm assuming you're staying with him, so," he gestured to the chair, "try to get some sleep."

When Sam sat in the chair, it put him nearly at the same height as Dean's lowered bed. Close enough to brush his fingers over the fine hairs on Dean's forearm without having to lean forward. It creaked and rocked, felt like it was swallowing him, sucking the energy out, turning hair and fingers and fingernails heavy.

But he wasn't ready for sleep.

He folded himself forward, set his forehead on Dean's mattress and wrapped his hand around Dean's wrist. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispered, aware he sounded six, which was okay, because he felt six. _It wasn't your fault, Sammy, _he heard in his head

He tightened his hold, smoothed his thumb across Dean's wrist, staring into the mattress.

A moment later he tilted his head up, balanced on his chin, and was surprised to find Dean's eyes were open—watching him.

He sat up quickly. "Hey," he said, a little startled—_like Dean showing up outside his motel room when he was supposed to be in the hospital_. "You're supposed to be asleep."

Dean slowly blinked. His lips moved, but his expression stayed the same—too worried, too knowing. "Are you okay?" he mumbled.

"Yeah," Sam answered, but his voice broke on it, body slumping. He reached up—because he knew Dean wouldn't stop him, couldn't stop him—and ran his hand roughly over the top of Dean's scalp. "I'm fine."

"Liar." Dean shifted his head groggily under Sam's hand. "You didn't kill him, did you?"

"No," Sam breathed, from the back of his throat, half the syllable stuck in his lungs. "Wanted to."

Dean's eyes crinkled in the corners, face so… understanding, Sam kind of wanted to start bawling all over again.

He wrapped his hand tighter around Dean's wrist—smooth, warm skin—forced his voice out stronger and said, "Guess we should have been watching for that one. I never thought… I never… I didn't realize he was… what he was."

"Stop it, Sam."

Sam bit his lip miserably. "I thought you and he were just—that you and he were just giving each other a bad time."

Dean moved his lips. "We _were_, Sammy. I picked at him. He picked back. He was good at it. I just thought he was… a colossal prick."

Sam snorted tiredly. "Yeah, well, turns out—you were right." It was an attempt to force levity into his croaky voice, but it was the bitterness that ran to the surface.

Dean tilted his head, watching Sam's face. "Wasn't your fault, okay?"

Sam scrubbed a hand over his eyes, looked down at Dean's wrist, the knob of fragile wrist bone. He could feel Dean's eyes on him, and responded with a tiny nod.

"Good," Dean said, "good."

When Sam looked up, Dean was still watching. He chewed his lip, letting the silence stretch. And when it felt like Dean was still waiting for something, he swallowed thickly and cleared his throat. "So you know about the basketball game, huh? The Emergency Room?" He'd been working over in his mind how to say this, and since Dean was awake, somewhat captive, and because Sam needed to say it, he pushed the topic tentatively into the air between them.

Dean's eyes shuttered instantly. He blinked into a different direction of the room, and it hurt Sam's heart to see it. With everything else they'd learned that night, Sam's fears and Dean's fears, and everything they'd shoved through and overcome—_don't lose him now, I'm hurting you, _and_ only if you let go_—it hurt a little more than it should have. Deeper, sharper—all Dean's bruising easier to see.

Sam took a slow breath, calmed the emotion breaking free from his chest and kept going.

Dean had to know.

Sam couldn't leave him thinking what Blake had left him thinking.

"I did," he whispered into his brother's closed expression. "I said… I said what Blake said I said." Dean kept his gaze averted and Sam let his voice get stronger. "Jess… and everyone else told me later—after—that I kept telling them not to call you."

Dean's eyes sharpened, dark green, bright. His lips parted, like he was getting ready to cut Sam off.

Sam sped up. "I had a head injury, so I don't remember saying it, but I believed them when they told me what I said because…"

Dean's mouth remained open, just slightly, but he stayed silent, watching again, eyes damningly interested.

"I believed them because, from my _first _day of school, I thought those words _all_ the time." He remembered it, like a mantra he'd repeated to himself nearly every day—_don't call Dad or Dean, don't call Dad or Dean, don't call Dad or Dean._

His brother's lips closed, expression openly raw with confusion and hurt.

Sam hesitated. How could he explain that, back then, he'd still been a kid in so many ways? He hadn't seen Dad's worry or Dean's concern. He'd seen all the sins he hadn't wanted to pay for and all the things he didn't want to be condemned to. He'd seen one's obsession and the other's perfect skill—seen the walls they'd built around him and the million different ways they seemed to tell him _you can't do this yourself. You need us._

And he had and did. _Needed. Wanted. Missed._

Back then, _need_ and _fear_ meant weakness. And as glaring as it was in others—in his father and brother, where it shouldn't have existed—it was even greater in himself.

After that first year, it'd gotten easier, but there'd been a few times, when things were especially rough… that he'd almost caved, almost broken down, wanted to call _do over_. Reach for the phone and say, _Dean, come get me. _

"My first year was… pretty rough," he explained aloud.

Dean's eyes narrowed, a small catch in his breath.

"Nothing… _bad_ happened," Sam assured. "But, a lot of the time I was so… _afraid_… just… just being on my own." He lifted and dropped his shoulders. "It was hard. And I missed you." His voice broke again, and he cursed himself. He looked down to realize he now had both hands wrapped around Dean's arm—Dean's skin bloodless around the edges of his grip—and forced himself to loosen his fingers.

"I kept thinking, if the littlest thing happened… if you or Dad showed up, I'd just… cave and go with you. And I wanted to prove to myself—to you and to Dad—that I could do it. Especially with… with the way things were left with Dad."

Dean's eyes crinkled in the corners, _secrets breathing out his eyes_, voice compassionate. "Sam—"

"I didn't want you guys out of my life—I didn't want _you_ out of my life. I just, sometimes, I pictured you and Dad showing up—Dad saying, _I told you so, Sammy, now get in the car._ And some of those times, I'm pretty sure I would have just said—_yes sir_—would have been packed and ready to go in seconds." Testing self and independence and growing. Sometimes, it had been like a kid holding his finger to a flame—_how long can I keep it there and not burn?_ _How far can I get away from my family and still breathe?_

Sam's voice inflection must have been a pretty reasonable imitation of a John-Sam exchange, because Dean huffed and jerked the arm in Sam's grip toward his stomach when the motion from the laugh undoubtedly _pulled_.

Surprised at the sound, Sam smiled back.

Dean's eyes had changed, no longer defensive, no longer shuttered, but Sam had to make sure. "It was never… it wasn't about _you_, Dean. It was _never_…"

"It's okay, Sammy, I get it. It's _okay_."

Sam released a shaky breath—a grateful breath—meeting Dean's eyes with compassion of his own. Seeing things in Dean he couldn't have seen fully before—things that explained _good soldier_, _I can't do this alone_, and, _yeah, well I don't want to_, a little better. Things little kids never recognize in their big brothers.

Dean rolled his head, mumbling a grunt.

"You should be asleep," Sam said, eyeing Dean's IV. "I thought Jack gave you painkillers."

"Think he did," Dean answered.

"Were they enough?" he pushed, observing the grimace on Dean's face, knowing his brother had an annoyingly high tolerance for some of them.

Dean didn't say anything.

"I'll get Jack." Sam slipped out before Dean could stop him.

A shot in the IV and five minutes later Dean was fading fast, but he kept blinking his eyes wide and darting them at Sam.

Sam ran his hand up his brother's forearm. "Go to sleep," he encouraged.

"You gonna sleep?" Dean mumbled, eyes closing again.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Yes."

Dean looked like he might say more, like his eyes might blink open again, but he didn't—they didn't—and soon his breathing evened, the lines on his face smoothed.

Sam stared.

There were no ghosts now… no latchers... and Dean wasn't exactly ghost-coma-unconscious, but sitting next to him, Sam felt his fingers itch and the sensation didn't go away until he gave in—reached out—and laid his hand flat over Dean's heart.

* * *

Charlie clicked the door open cautiously and tried to make the moving rustle of curtain chains against ceiling runners as soft as possible. Standing by the window, Sam turned his head, eyes narrowed, face hard for a flashing moment, as if he was looking for a threat, but it softened quickly. "Hey," he greeted.

"Thought you might still be asleep," Charlie returned, voice respectfully low.

"Not anymore," Sam shrugged, pulling hands out of pockets as Charlie handed him a cup of coffee. "Thanks."

The early morning light through the window folded around Sam as he lifted the cup to his lips. It made him seem bigger than he already was—awkwardly large in the space they were confined to—_like a tiger in a cage…_

Charlie's eyes flickered down at Dean. He jerked his chin at him after sipping at his own cup. "Jack said he's going to keep Dean drugged a bit longer—doesn't want him to have to deal with the pain from the ribs and muscle damage yet, says he'll probably sleep for a while."

"He's had worse," Sam mumbled.

Charlie flashed over the last several days—thought of Sam saying, _his damn heart_, thought of ghost infections and electrocutions—and heard a thousand other things he didn't know about coming out in Sam's voice. "Yeah. Yeah I guess so," he mumbled.

Sam set his coffee on the little table near Dean's head and dropped himself into the creaking easy chair, roughly rubbing his face.

Charlie took the plastic one near Dean's feet. "Blake's gone," he informed, ignoring the confusion that situation stirred in his own stomach.

Sam's face shifted—hard and dark. "Is he?" he said neutrally—like he needed more and couldn't care less at the same time.

"He left last night," Charlie confirmed.

Sam glanced away.

"It was Jack," Charlie continued. "After he set his broken nose, he gave him an hour to be out or…" he didn't finish, licked his lips, let his tone lighten. "It was pretty scary actually. In fact, I've added him to my list of super scary things I never thought I'd see _ever_. And I certainly never thought I'd see them all in one weekend. You're on the list too, by the way."

Sam's expression turned wry, but Charlie caught the smile and felt a little pleased.

"Is there something about that?" he continued. "Should I be paying attention to the cycles of the moon and the tides and such? Warning signs that will help me avoid colossal streaks of supernatural bad luck?"

Sam chin pointed at Dean and slowly blinked. "Not hanging around us might do it."

"Nah," Charlie dismissed, and turned serious. "Something tells me this all might have been a lot worse if you two hadn't been here."

Sam looked over, gaze open and direct, revealing the extent of his red-rimmed eyes, exposing his worry and anger and hope. "I try to believe that sometimes."

Charlie cleared his throat, bounced one foot. "Back to… back to Blake. I'm sorry… that this happened." He gestured at Dean, tried not to _stare_ at Dean—at the scabs on his lips, at the black and blue and green and purple, and the motionlessness of him. "I feel like we should've known. I still… it's still kind of hard to believe—"

"_I_ should have known," Sam whispered.

"Don't do that," Charlie said, voice as edged and serious as he ever got. "None of us saw it. We've been talking about it—all of us—and _none of us_ saw this. We all feel we should have, but…" He sighed. "We thought—I thought, at first, maybe the ghost thing just… made him snap."

Sam was listening—intent.

"Then Donna said—she said when she and Blake were dating, that when they were going to break up, she'd wanted him to think it was his idea, because she was kind of afraid of his reaction. And I guess since she never hesitates to say what she thinks to anyone else—that should have been a clue. And there was Blake's image thing… the way he always needed to be in charge and hated to lose. Jack said something about malignant narcissism or something. And I don't know about that, but… I think it was always there—the part of Blake that made him do this."

Sam's eyes clouded over, line appearing between his eyebrows as he stared at nothing, like he was searching his memory for warning signs of his own he should have caught.

Charlie cleared his throat and let his voice sharpen. "The thing is, all this analyzing is in retrospect. None of us could've predicted this. Not you, not any of us. We had no basis for it. Some people are just… really good liars, Sam."

Sam turned white. He dropped his eyes. Charlie watched a dark flush crawl over his ears—saw a guilty flash in his expression and didn't understand the reaction until Sam spoke. "I didn't mean… I never meant to really _lie_ to you guys—"

"_You_ didn't," Charlie cut over. "I mean, despite a few _very_ impressive Jason Bourne-esque skills you neglected to mention… you're the same Sam Winchester I've known since freshman year."

Sam stared at the floor, bit his lip and ran long fingers over his forehead.

Charlie waited, remembering himself and Sam, new and green, trying to figure out school and classes—both the only ones on their floor not getting nightly phone calls and weekly care packages from their mothers.

Sam glanced up, flashed a look of gratitude, gave him a nod and reached for his coffee cup.

Charlie took that as his cue to turn things light. "Now, since—if Jack has anything to say about it, and my recent experiences with Scary Jack say he probably does—you and Dean will be stuck here for a bit. Jack has agreed to steal Dr. Norris's super secret TV/DVD player and bring it in here. And luckily, there is a brand new Blockbuster right down the road."

* * *

Dean awoke in stages, catching voices, flashes of conversation, fading again and starting over.

"_Becky knows?"_

"_And Zack, probably. I'm sure she told him."_

"_Wait… so the thing with…"_

"_It was a shapeshifter."_

"_And you guys…"_

Brain foggy and clouded, then dark dark dark.

"_Poltergeists?"_

"_Definitely."_

"_Werewolves?"_

"_Rare, but yes—and don't mention them around Dean, he has an unhealthy fascination."_

"_Okay, um… fairies?"_

_Sam's laugh. _Dean liked the sound_—_he felt it lighten the worry about Sam's mental state he'd had bricked into his stomach when he'd gone under with the sedative. The lightness of it stayed looped in his ears as he slipped under again.

"_Why Sara? Why did the ghost take you and the others… but just do whatever it did to Sara?"_

"_Not sure. Ghosts that possess usually have to pick someone who's already vulnerable in some way. Stress or grief or…" _

_"Her mom, I think her mom's been getting worse."_

"_How bad?"_

"_Not sure. She doesn't talk about it much."_

_Yeah_, Dean thought, _sometimes families suck even without the curse of the supernatural_.

_"Why'd it possess her?"_

He felt his eyebrows twitch in confusion. Hadn't that already been asked an answered? Had he fallen asleep again?

_"No, I mean… you said 'ghosts that possess.' Don't all ghosts possess? I can't believe I'm asking stuff like this."_

Sam cleared his throat smoothly. _"Ghosts possess people when they're not strong enough to do things themselves… not strong enough to communicate or travel from place to place. It probably used Sara for both but couldn't stay in her all the time because it was already weakened and was being pulled back with the other ghosts." _

And Dean was under again, but he thought he'd felt Sam's gaze on him just before sleep won out.

"_I think my eyes are getting better. Instead of a big dark blur, I see a big light blur."_

"_There's nothing to see. I used to live here, you know."_

"_You're gonna die here, you know—convenient."_

It took Dean a minute to realize he wasn't crazy, that he was listening to _Star Wars_. Return of the Jedi?

The air smelled vaguely of popcorn.

"Dean?" It wasn't Sam's voice.

He worked open his cotton-coated mouth and sore jaw—blinked crusty eyes. He hated what sedatives and painkillers—whatever crap Jack had given him—did to him, making him slow and _unguarded_.

"Sam's in the hall. Will you grab him?"

Dean grimaced. He hated being talked about, hated Sam being _fetched_ for him. Hated that he was struggling to place the face and voice. Jack, he thought a minute later. Jack was staring down at him.

By the time Sam came in, things weren't so hazy, but he was still fighting the dullness in his head, was grimacing from having tried to move, and felt hungry as hell.

"Hey, you're awake," Sam said—relieved, pleased—laying his hand on Dean's shoulder with enough subtle pressure to keep him down.

"I'm awake," Dean conceded.

"Good," Sam answered. "But, since you're stuck here," he said with another tiny brush of pressure on Dean's shoulder, "we're having a movie marathon."

It was warning and need. Forced recovery time. Dean smirked in acceptance.

"You're going to be thrilled," Sam continued, completely serious. "Sara and Kim rented the new _Godzilla_."

* * *

The DVD fest lasted through that day and the next two—through Dean's groggy grousing in the clinic, to him lying gingerly on the couch back in the basement of Charlie's cabin—and included several series of TV shows, including _Boy Meets World_, which Sam picked out, and got mocked for relentlessly by more than just Dean.

He still made Dean watch the whole second season and part of the third.

His friends—stuck in the hazy cloud of dealing with their rewritten universe—got sucked into it with them. None of them were in the mood for hiking and climbing like their vacation plans originally included. And Sam liked it… stupid movies and not thinking and being lazy. He liked watching Dean interact with Sara and Charlie and felt a little tickle of satisfaction when he overheard Garrett recounting to Dean the way Sam had _just totally laid Blake out_ and how they'd all scrambled to get the bartender not to call the police.

Sam had just come back into the room as the story was being told. Pretending he'd heard nothing, he set his soda down on the coffee table before lifting Dean's legs back onto his lap, watching the TV screen, ignoring Dean's stare. Dean was asleep again ten minutes later.

At which point, Sam switched focus, letting his eyes roll over the others. Everyone lazily engrossed in the movie. He felt a heavy ache when he inadvertently wondered where Jessica would've sat, wondered what Jessica would have thought—wondered what would Jess have said to Dean, if she'd been there.

* * *

Dean and Charlie weren't something Sam had really expected. While Dean seemed most comfortable and at ease with Jack, it was Charlie that elicited and got the most verbal response. There were jokes and there were questions. Conversations happening both in and out of Sam's presence he felt like he shouldn't be listening to—the oddity of hearing people gossip right in front of his face.

"_Sam played soccer?"_

"_There's a Latin club at Stanford? What the hell do Latin clubs do? It's not like they're out exorcizing stuff."_

"_What is with his ketchup-on-spaghetti thing? Disgusting."_

"_Is that why he started crushing cornflakes over ice cream? Twisted, dude, seriously."_

Charlie recounted Sam's Christmas with him and his parents on Martha's Vineyard. "They said he was the most polite boy they'd had in their home, ever." Charlie grinned and Sam blushed.

Dean recounted a Christmas at Pastor Jim's that included Sam's at-the-time fascination with flying reindeer and an incident on Pastor Jim's roof involving an eight-pound bag of rock salt and the snow reconstruction of a yeti.

They talked about Sam's grades, his lack of partying habits, and how he'd met Jessica Moore.

After a while Sam joined in on that one and it didn't hurt as much as he thought it was going to. Dean listened, laughed occasionally, and watched Sam's face. But after that, he stopped asking Charlie questions and turned contemplative and strangely quiet the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

The kitchen was empty.

Or not empty, exactly. Jack was standing at the refrigerator, Garrett and Kim were chopping vegetables, Charlie and Sara were debating _which plates_ in front of the cupboards, and Donna and Elly were whispering at the table.

"Where's Dean?"

There was a swiveling of heads, like they thought they might magically see Dean appear out of thin air if they looked in the right direction.

Sam found him near the top of the stairs, right hand holding tight to the banister, left tucked close to his body. Sam skipped up them four at time, coming behind and setting hands at Dean's sides. "Trying to kill yourself?" he asked casually, but his heart thumped as he eyed the possible descent.

Dean responded with a tremble.

"You going to the room?" Sam pushed, not waiting for the response from his first question. They'd slept in the basement the night before but their duffels were in the room they'd used earlier.

"Just tired," Dean hissed. There was defeat in the sound—annoyance.

Sam felt his gut clench at the familiarity of the words, the untruthfulness so often inherent when uttered by anyone in their family.

Dean sighed. "I just wanted to be alone for a while, okay?" He didn't sound mad or distraught or anything abnormally worrisome and Sam didn't think Dean meant him when he said 'alone'—thought maybe the activity and mess of personalities and required interaction was getting to him.

Dean hadn't said anything about it—hadn't pushed Sam about leaving yet.

Sam kept his hands under Dean's elbows, guiding him up the remaining steps wordlessly.

When he eased Dean down on the bed, he saw contemplation again on Dean's face and wasn't sure what it meant.

"You're being quiet," he said.

Dean's eyes darted toward him—shadowed—some emotion in them Sam couldn't read.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah." Dean coughed lightly. Sam caught the flash of wonder in his look—caught what looked like a question.

He frowned.

"I don't know," Dean shrugged out finally, tilting his head against the headboard. "This is just weird, I guess. I knew you had a… a life. It was always just… really hard to picture." Dean smiled, but it was faint, gone before Sam could dwell on it, struck instead by the way Dean's voice cleared around the uncharacteristic honesty.

There was space between Dean and the edge of the bed. Sam drew a sighing breath and sat, his own back against the headboard, one leg bent up on the bed, shoulder brushing Dean's, a contented weariness settling on him as he sat. "So you like them?" he asked. "Besides the whole… one of them almost trying to kill you thing?" He froze as soon as he said it because it was a Dean thing to say—trying to make a joke of something that wasn't funny and never would be. Sam was surprised it'd come out of him—like maybe, back in the graveyard, their grips on each other had been fierce enough that they'd spread into each other and left bits behind.

Dean snorted. Then groaned, tucking an arm across his chest. "Ah, don't make me laugh."

Sam dragged his other leg onto the bed and just… sat. Waiting.

A long minute later, Dean said, "Yeah, I like them." Sam turned his head and Dean met his eyes. "I'm glad you were happy."

Sam swallowed. Outside their door, down the stairs, way away in the kitchen, he could hear the tiny echoes of his friends, sounds of them recovering from weird, getting back to normal, likely to never experience anything supernatural again.

For a minute, he wanted it all to be gone. Wanted it to just be him and Dean. For a minute, it all felt like too much—pretense and pretending and remembering the steps to a dance that should have been familiar because he'd danced it for years, but wasn't. Not anymore. _We could stay_, he heard Dean saying, somewhere in the echoes of his mind. But Sam didn't want to.

It was an illusion, those sounds. This… temporary peace. There were things still out there, there was Dad still out there, and demons, and killers.

Maybe Dean would recover better on the road.

And maybe, Sam thought, he would too.

Dean hadn't pushed, but he had to be feeling it—the itch to just _get away_.

Dean. Sam. Impala. Road.

"If you're up to it," Sam said carefully. "I think… I think it's time to go. I think _we_ need to go."

When he turned to check, Dean looked relieved.

"You still have to take it easy," he clarified. "We're not looking for a hunt yet. I just think we'd do better… moving on."

Dean held his hands up. "I'm not arguing."

"You will," groused Sam. "I'm sure of it."

* * *

"You know, you're welcome to stay—recuperate a little more."

Sam shook Jack's hand. "Thanks, for everything, but uh… we coop Dean up in there any longer and recuperation isn't going to be what's happening."

Jack smiled, tipping his head in concession. "Then good luck, I guess—but make sure he takes it slow." He handed Sam a card—business card, two extra numbers scrawled on the back. "Call. If anything… if you need… just call."

"Thank you," Sam repeated, meaning it, "for everything."

Jack nodded, then continued down the walk to where Dean was leaning against the car. He shook his hand also—gently grasped his shoulder—before heading back to the house.

When Sam took his eyes from Jack, Kim stepped forward to hug him, like Donna and Sara already had. When she pulled back, her look was scrutinizing, a little less self conscious, a lot more genuine. "And you're happy?" she asked.

Sam glanced over his shoulder at Dean, watched him fiddle with the sunglasses in his hands with a frown between his eyebrows. Healing and getting better and _there_. "I'm content," he answered.

Kim looked at Dean then back at Sam—nodding, like she believed him. "Well, be careful." She smiled and hugged him again, giving Dean a wave as she turned away. "We'll be thinking of you—both of you."

"Thanks," Sam acknowledged.

Charlie came out the front door, a small cooler in his hand and a grocery bag of other odds and ends in the other. "For the road," he said innocently, when Sam's eyebrows went up.

"People always send us away with weird food," Sam muttered, pacing Charlie toward Dean and the car.

"It's a good tradition," Charlie defended. "And it makes goodbye feel less final because… well, now you have to bring my cooler back."

When they got closer to the car, Sam held his hand out to Dean for the car keys—got a pause just long enough to make him scowl before Dean handed them over.

Charlie shook Dean's hand and gripped his bicep while Sam put the food in the back seat.

"Take care of yourself, Charlie," Dean said.

"I've already begun stockpiling rock salt—I've got it covered."

Dean laughed, then moaned. Sam caught his elbow, holding him upright as he opened the passenger door and started to settle him in. "Take it _easy_, Dean."

"I got it, Sam."

Sam rolled his eyes, handed Dean a pillow to support his ribs, and shut the door, sighing as he turned to face his friend. "So, when do the rest of you head back?" he asked, walking Charlie a few paces back toward the cabin.

Charlie stopped, fingers tucked in his jeans pockets. "Everyone goes back tomorrow, but, ah, I'm taking the semester off. I'm gonna stay here for a bit… help Jack with Elly… and the wedding if they get it rolling. It just… feels right."

_Dean. Sam. Impala. Road._

"And Donna?"

"She understands. She'll fly out a few weekends when she can. We're good."

"Good." Sam shifted. "Good."

"If you ever need anything. Anything at _all_—"

"I know," Sam said. "Thank you."

They shook hands, pulled forward for a brief hug and a thump on the back.

Charlie looked thoughtful when he pulled away. His eyes flicked over to the car and Dean, staring for a moment, looking undecided. He looked Sam in the eye, shrugged, started to walk away then stopped again. "Hey, Sam," he said finally. "You know I'm jealous, right? I mean… the things you've been through I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy… or Blake for that matter, and I'd rather deal with the all the classic plagues of Egypt than go through any of what you've been through but… I'm still jealous."

Something in Sam's eyes sparked, a pleased feeling making its way to his lips. "I know," he answered.

Charlie nodded, an expression of contentment on his face, like he was glad he'd said what he'd said. He turned back up the walk, toward Donna and Jack and Sara—all still lingering on the porch.

And Sam felt the pang of loss and regret every bit as much as the he felt the joy and relief of what he had—of what he _knew_ he had, and had to say it—

"Hey, Charlie?"

Charlie turned.

"Me too."

Charlie watched his face, and nodded.

Sam took one last look, then tore himself away. Walked to the car. Walked to Dean.

It felt right.

When he got in, he pretended not to notice Dean watching him from the passenger seat as he started the ignition.

"You're content?" Dean pushed, having obviously heard his conversation with Kim.

"Yeah," he answered, using his best _what of it_ tone. "We're both alive. You're… getting better. And this _stupid hunt_ is finally over."

The lie was in him being okay with the rest of it.

The truth was Dean was the only thing he couldn't afford to lose.

He could feel Dean smiling at him.

"What?" Sam asked. "Did you want to stay a little longer or something?"

"Nah." Dean slid his sunglasses onto his face. "Let's hit the road, Ponyboy."

Sam narrowed his eyes at Dean's comment—_random_—shook his head and let his foot press down on the accelerator.

* * *

_Leaving Lander, Wyoming, 1996_

Sammy was inside the gas station, a grocery list in one fist and cash in the other.

Dean would have gone with him, but Dad had said no, and that was kinda okay, because he was still feeing wrung out in more ways than he expected. But it was also kinda not okay, because there was a charged feeling in the truck, filling the space, pulsing out from Dad's blank face.

The engine was off. John sat silently behind the wheel. Motionless. But he was working up to saying something, Dean realized, with a tiny seed of apprehension sprouting in his gut.

"Dean."

Dean shook his head, staring toward the gas station and Sammy.

He didn't want to talk about what the ghost had done to him. He didn't want to think about it, remember the pain, or the waiting, or the fear. And he didn't want to have to explain it to his dad. He didn't want to re-hash the argument they'd had before it'd all happened either. Because even with all he'd just been through—Dean would have still fought to stay with his family, wouldn't have let John send him off, and he wasn't sorry.

He _wasn't_ sorry.

But John had been working his way up to some sort of talk or lecture ever since Dean had woken. Maybe it was inevitable, but he still didn't want to hear it. "Dad, don't—"

"No," John said sharply.

Dean snapped his mouth closed—felt his chest quiver.

"Listen. Just listen."

He swallowed and kept his eyes dead ahead. Waiting for the inevitable.

When the silence grew, he looked left, breath instantly stuttered because his dad's face wasn't what he'd thought it'd be, and it made his stomach tighten even more.

This was the face that reflected memories of Mom, reflected regret and grief and a thousand other things that were raw and delicate and never talked about. Things he'd watched his dad cling to so hard they inevitably bled through the cracks—streaming out, too intense for most people to understand or deal with. But Dean had practice—he'd been dealing with it since he was four years old.

He braced himself.

But the words that came were soft and not what he expected.

"I know I don't say it often to you boys. Not for a long time, but—" John's throat jumped visibly. "I love you, Dean."

Dean blinked, frozen.

"And I never meant… I never meant for us to lose _any_ members of our family. I never meant for you to lose your mother."

Dean clamped his teeth together, fought the rise of emotion in his chest—fighting, because while John _squeezed_, Dean _buried_.

Dad was looking at him, like he needed Dean to believe him. And Dean realized with a little click that this is what had made him vulnerable—that if he believed his dad a little more, missed his mom a little less, worried about losing again not as much…

He swallowed, nodded his head carefully, and kept the emotions from rising past his throat. "I know, Dad," he shoved out.

John watched him for a long moment, and must not have seen what he hoped for on Dean's face because his own turned to shadow, lost in resignation. "Do you?"

"Yessir."

John smiled sadly.

Dean shifted uncomfortably, not understanding the expression.

Then Dad reached out, scrubbing a hand over Dean's head, giving his neck a shake, gentle and rough all at once. "I hope so, kiddo," he said next, soft enough Dean almost couldn't hear. "I hope so."

The side door banged open a split second later, Sammy handing in the ordered supplies, fishing a cold Dr. Pepper out of the bag and giving it to Dean once he was inside, then passing a Coke to their father.

"You're in a good mood," commented John, putting the coke in the cup holder and starting the engine.

"We're leaving," Sam shrugged, popping his Sprite, leaning back in the seat and propping his feet up behind Dean's head.

"And you're happy about that?" Dean asked.

"I don't like Wyoming. Where we going now, anyway?"

"We're gonna get the Impala out of storage, take her to Uncle Bobby's and get her running again."

"Really?" Dean asked. He liked the truck fine, but it wasn't… it wasn't _home_ like the Impala—familiar, constant.

"Good," said Sam, emphatic. He dropped his feet, leaned forward and punched Dean's shoulder, then left his hand on Dean's arm—left it there long enough for Dean to turn his head to see if he needed something. But Sam didn't—was just sipping on his Sprite and looking out the front windshield toward the road, hand absently gripping, hooked in Dean's sleeve.

Dean said nothing about it, leaned his head back against the headrest and sipped his own drink—content, for now, with what was in front of him. Because sometimes being content was in how you defined it. Sometimes being content meant pretending to let go of what you'd lost and holding on instead to what you hadn't.

He had Dad, and Sammy, and an open road.

He told himself _he_ was okay as long as _they_ were okay.

He told himself, as long as he had them, everything would be just fine.

* * *

The End

* * *

_Random author notes:_

A friend asked me the other day, "In one word, how would you describe your writing?"

"Excessive" was the only one that came to mind. ;)

I'm impressed anyone stuck through this. Despite the time it took, this was fun to write—a pure guilty pleasure for me in every sense. Thank you to those who had fun with it along with me. The support this fiction received was unexpected.

_More random author notes and acknowledgements:_

The song "Little Bird" comes from "The Man of La Mancha."

"The Twilight Zone," was an awesome classic show, and clearly, Charlie's thought process/introduction utilizing it was pulled directly from Rod Serling and I have no claim or ownership over it.

"The Outsiders," was written by S.E. Hinton when she was just sixteen years old. If you haven't read it—go! Read! And I've since been informed that several other authors have made the same comparisons with the characters in the book to Sam and Dean and John that I have. Hopefully proving that great minds think alike. If you haven't read the book, what more of an endorsement are you looking for—go! Read!

There were many other shows and books and movies and things referenced in a more minor or passing way throughout this fic. If you recognize it from someplace else, particularly if it's a pop culture reference—yeah, probably not mine. Special reference to Pool Terms and Slang (website), to Banking With the Beard: True Road Adventures. Thanks to my buddy Dave for making an adequate attempt to explain "ball in hand." And with gratitude to short stories by

Thanks also to Geminigrl11, Faith, November's Guest, and I think I even dragged May7 into beta reading for me at some point. All gave excellent feedback and helped keep the typos at bay. Some of the reviewers helped in this regard - like a mini group beta project for trapping typos. Due to the nature of how this was written, these comments were very helpful, as was everyone's patience.

Besides the episode "Faith" this fic was spawned out of one line: Dean's "Maybe you know your friends as well as they know you" comment in the episode Skin. I wanted to explore the outsider's pov of Sam's world as well as the idea that, if Sam was able to hide things so well, what would it take for someone else to do the same? And that was Blake.

Afterward: Charlie ditches Harvard Law partway through and becomes the next Stephen King.

Any other questions?

Thank you all again. Sincerely. Thank you!

Additional afterward: For whatever reason, I haven't been able to look at this story since I finished it, having a strange relationship with it in general, and feeling I'd end up wanting to either take it down or change it all. Recently, I did finally, actually click on it, and replaced the section breaks that got coded out by this site how ever many years ago. What a mess you've all been reading with those gone. I also fixed a few minor typos, though I'm sure several remain. Beyond that, it's still the same woefully overwrought beast it's always been. :)


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